New World for the Winning
by Randomcat1832
Summary: Éponine should have been shot and killed in the year 1832. But instead, she finds herself waking in modern day London. There she meets future versions of those she knew in her past life. And she is about to find herself entangled in a mystery beyond solving, in a world she does not know. Enjonine.
1. Chapter 1

.

**New World for the Winning**

Author's Introduction: Or, the rant at the beginning of the story where I tell you all the information you might want to know about the story you have just clicked on! (Thank you for that, by the way, and I hope you decide to read on after I shut up). So, this is only my second fanfiction for _Les Mis_ that has an actual plot, that will have the format of a real story, with conflict, rising action, side plots, climax, et cetera. It is also my first Enjonine story!

Finally, ratings: this story is rated at a T for occasional coarse language, possible mild violence, and some slight sexual content. Hopefully this doesn't scare all of you away.

Personal Milestone: 10th fanfiction, 7th story for _Les Misérables_.

* * *

Chapter One

…

Dying felt differently than Éponine had imagined it to. There was a mere fuzzy sensation of fading pain — no black pit open and ready to swallow her whole, nor any brilliant white light led by an open-armed angel. No, there was just this feeling of disappearing, bit by bit. It was almost pleasant, and she reached for it. Then the world gave way beneath her and she found herself falling.

It was dizzying, actually. She tumbled, loose-limbed as a newborn foal, through a whirlwind of times past, glimpsing snapshots of her life as she passed them.

Éponine was thirteen, and in love for the first time. She was ten and newly haggard, wandering the streets of Paris on her own. She was eight. Playing with the kitten that they'd had to leave behind when they'd left Montfermeil two years later. Six. Climbing a tree, skirts gathered, and laughing in childhood oblivion. Five. Four. Three, two, a baby bawling in its crib, and then something small, pale, and alien, as fragile as a tadpole.

At the end of all this came a cushioned landing, a dazed emptiness, and finally the anticipated blackness.

…

She awoke, coming to by degrees. Some hard surface beneath her — pavement. Her head was aching; she felt terribly dizzy. A foul, coppery taste in her mouth that might have been blood. Her throat parched. And there was a dull pain in her stomach, just above her hip.

Éponine moaned softly, and blinked her eyes open, squinting against the sudden sunlight. She sat up very slowly and found herself wincing against the sharp pain in her stomach as she did so. She lifted a hand to her aching head and massaged at her temples, deciding it wise to fully awaken and start moving little by little. What had happened to her?

It all came back in a rush that nearly knocked the breath out of her: Marius meeting Cosette. Marius, and her brother, fighting at the barricades. The letter. Returning to the barricades, keen to fight alongside her love, almost certain she would die there. Praying he wouldn't. Throwing herself in front of the bullet aimed at him. Rain and blood mixing, mingling, running as one through the cobblestones. And she remembered dying in Marius' arms, accepting her fate, feeling herself fading away …

And now she was here, wherever _here_ was. Éponine, her eyes having adjusted a little better to the light, opened them fully and took in her surroundings.

Confusion mounted. She hadn't the faintest clue where she was at all, a feeling foreign to Éponine. Judging by the look of her surroundings, she was in an alleyway of some kind, but it was a very unusual alleyway unlike any she'd ever seen. Certainly not one typical of Paris, and Éponine knew every corner, every street, every alley of her city. Only Gavroche knew the streets better than she. But this place … why, even the pavement beneath her was a mystery, for she wasn't lying on cobblestones or even earth, but on some kind of rough black tarlike substance.

"I don't understand," she murmured softly to herself.

For she really didn't. The alleyway was long and narrow, ending with a high brick wall. Pressed up against this wall was a large green bin, the paint chipping to reveal oxidising metal underneath. The bin was overflowing with what appeared to be overstuffed glossy black bags that spilled out onto the pavement. The ground was littered, here and there, with scraps of things shiny and colourful, like scattered flattened candies. The entire alleyway was in shadow from the looming, sturdy-looking grey buildings that were placed severely on either side of the alley like sentries.

Éponine gritted her teeth. Wherever she was, she wanted to get out of there. Find her way to familiar territory. Perhaps there would be someone to ask. She drew in a deep breath, then, deciding it best to get it over with, got to her feet in one quick motion. She nearly cried out as the pain in her stomach intensified, and for several moments she stood unsteadily, her legs like jelly, as she clutched at the hurting spot with her eyes screwed tightly shut. Then she doubled over and vomited onto the tarlike pavement at her feet.

Still feeling light-headed and a bit vulnerable, Éponine wandered out of the alleyway. Her steps were small and slow, for she didn't want to keel over, and her feet ached from walking in boots that were several sizes too big. But as soon as she stepped out of the alleyway, her mouth fell open and she almost fell over in shocked wonderment.

What greeted her was a sight of more buildings, all so much sturdier-looking than any Éponine had ever seen before; especially those in her usual hangout in the slums of Paris, where every building looked like it would cave in at the next strong gust of wind. But these buildings were secure, and were generally made of slabs of grey concrete and _metal_, and all were accompanied by enormous panes of clean glass. And they were so tall! The tallest looked to be about thirty or even forty storeys high! Who, Éponine wondered, could possibly have built such things so well?

The streets were, for the most part, deserted, and a glance at the cloudy sky showed why: the sun had only just started rising, small bits of colour and light spilling over the horizon. In Paris at this hour, the only souls on the streets had ever been drunks, urchins, and factory workers. This place, wherever it was, was clearly _not_ Paris, but all the same Éponine only passed a few people. Most of them seemed drunk to her, and she hastened to step out of their staggering way.

There was not a carriage or horse or pile of manure or even a wagon in sight, and after a while, Éponine realised that the air smelled strange and foul: almost acrid.

She wandered quite cluelessly through this strange city's streets (for she assumed that city it was) for a long time, so overcome by combined confusion and curiosity that she barely noticed the blisters on her feet, the pain in her stomach, her pounding headache.

As Éponine wandered, the tall concrete buildings gave way to smaller brick ones, and with more time the small brick buildings became shops. She peered in their front windows, fascinated. Some seemed to be selling clothing; she could tell by the mannequins on display boasting alarmingly snug-fitting trousers, shirts, and dresses. But most of the fabrics were foreign to Éponine, and while she could identify most _items_ of clothing, they were nothing like clothes she had ever seen before. There were other things, too: glinting jewellery, books, and other knick-knacks she couldn't begin to name. She also passed a few restaurants and cafes, but they were all closed at this early hour.

As the sun made its slow and steady ascent in the sky, the streets grew a little more crowded. Éponine supposed she could have asked someone for help, but she found she could not bring herself to just yet. Besides, confused and frightened though she was, she took innate comfort in idly wandering the streets like this. She kept her head down and watched the passing people out of the corner of her eye. They all wore the same strange clothing that the mannequins in the shop windows had been wearing, and she was surprised to see that most of the women wore trousers! And nearly all of them had their ankles on full display, bold as you please.

Some of the people cast her passing glances too: pity, disgust, curiosity. She knew full well she was out of place in this world, and the dirt on her face and clothes marked her status as exactly what she was: a creature of the slums. Most, however, took little notice of her, too lost to themselves and the rush of the day ahead.

Sometimes, in the middle of the roads, most curious objects would pass her by on four fat black wheels at alarming speed. Vaguely box-shaped and seemingly made of metal, they varied in colour, though most were grey or black. She thought them to be rather like funny metal animals. There were people riding inside them; Éponine could see them through the little windows. The first time one passed her by, she ran into the middle of the street to get a closer look, but the thing emitted a frightful loud honking noise, and Éponine scurried away. From then on, she avoided them as best she could. The things passed her more and more frequently as the morning wore on, and before long the streets were full of them.

The sun was fully in the sky, the streets were packed with people and the metal animals, and many of the shops had opened before Éponine worked up the courage to ask for help. She ever so hated asking for help; she was used to fending for herself. But she spied a man leaning against a post. He smoked a cigarette and was reading a newspaper.

Éponine folded her hands behind her back, swallowed hard, and meekly approached him. "Excuse me, sir," she said as politely as she could. The man looked up and put down his newspaper, so Éponine continued. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I seem to have gotten quite lost. Would you terribly mind telling me where it is I am?" The words felt strange on her tongue, almost as though they were not really French but some foreign language. But that couldn't be.

The man took the cigarette from his mouth between his thumb and index finger and held it there, aloft, as he blew out a long puff of smoke and answered. "Sure, love. Not a stone's throw from Russell Square; it's just round the corner there." Pointing, he gave her a sympathetic smile as his gaze skirted her, looked her up and down. "Rough night?"

Éponine didn't answer. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she replied, her heart beating faster now, "I … I'm afraid I don't at all know of any Russell Square. Might you know the way to the Place San Michel?"

The man shook his head, cocked it to one side. "'Fraid _I_ don't know of that." He paused. "Not from 'round here, I take it?" When Éponine shook her head, he nodded. "Well. There's an Underground stop not a block from 'ere. Maybe ask the bloke behind the ticket booth for directions." Another smile, another look up and down. It made Éponine squirm.

_Underground?_ she thought. _Whatever is that? I must find my way back to Paris, wherever it may be from this strange place. And then I must hurry to the barricades and help Marius … if I can. _She swallowed. The man spoke in a way that suggested she ought to know what this mysterious Underground was, as though it were an ordinary thing one saw every day. If she claimed not to know, he might think her a madwoman and call the authorities. So she put on her most winning smile, dipped her head, and said brightly, "Well, thank you for your trouble, sir. I shall do just that!" Then, before the man could say another word, she hurried away.

She decided to follow his directions and go to the place called Russell Square. She went in the direction he had pointed and soon found herself facing a large fenced-in green area with a fountain as the centrepiece just across the street. A few people lounged about on benches and on the grass. Righting herself, Éponine drew in yet another deep breath and slipped across the street. Another one of the metal creatures emitted its loud honking noise as she did so, and she scurried for safety to the other side of the street.

The square seemed to be open to the public, as she soon came across an opening in the fencing. Keeping her head down, she walked along a paved path and took a seat on one of the unoccupied benches facing the fountain. It was here, with her arms crossed over her chest that she finally allowed herself a moment to ponder her situation.

She'd been on the barricades. She'd been shot and was sure she had died. But then she'd woken up in that alleyway, and now she found herself in a bizarre, half-impossible world she'd never heard of but must be a very long way from her own. The thought that this might be Heaven occurred to her, but she dismissed it as soon as it came. Besides, it had been a long time since she'd bothered placing any faith in God. She'd never even been to church or Mass before. As children, she and her sister Azelma had watched other village children going to church, and they knew a passage or two from the Bible because they read from it at school, but that was all. And then, when their lives had gone upside-down and had turned into miserable ones, Éponine had decided that if there was in fact a God, then she didn't want to bother worshiping Him.

So, Éponine now reasoned, then she must still be alive, somehow. A thought suddenly occurred to her and she shed her coat, inspected the hurting area in her stomach where she'd been shot. She was alarmed to see her chemise was stained in blood. With a quick look around to make sure no one was watching her, she lifted her chemise to her chest and studied the bare skin of her stomach. There was no visible bullet wound, just a faint pink scar, though it stung nastily when she fingered it, drawing from her a hiss of pain. As though it would help, she put her coat back on.

So, yes, it seemed she was alive, her injuries miraculously mostly healed, and she was _here_. Now what was she to do? Perhaps she had gone mad after all. She was about to get up again and ask someone else for help when a young man sat down next to her on the bench. In one hand he clutched a steaming white cup that looked like it was made of paper, and his gaze was fixed on what he had in his other hand: a slim black device no bigger than a card that glowed faintly.

She watched him with wide eyes. Her face split in a relieved smile. Forgetting all decorum, she threw her arms round his neck. "Enjolras!" she cried.

Enjolras, for his part, just about yelped in alarm as the girl hugged him, nearly causing him to spill his coffee. "Oi!" he protested, perhaps a bit more harshly than was necessary, and tugged himself free of her embrace. It took a small effort; the girl's grip was strong. Sliding to the far side of the bench, he studied the girl as the smile slipped off her face. "Sorry," he added uneasily. "You just, er, surprised me." He pocketed his cell phone. "Um, yeah — sorry, do I know you?"

The girl looked as if her heart might break. "Enjolras, oh, Enjolras — but you must know me! It's _me_, Éponine! We _have_ met. But … do you know where we are? I woke here, and … "

He goggled at her in puzzlement. Who _was_ this girl? How did she know his name, and why the hell did she think he would know her? He'd never seen her before in his life, had never heard the name Éponine before. Maybe she was drunk. It wouldn't explain how she knew him, but … well, drunk or no, and whoever she was, the girl, Éponine, was a sorry sight. She was filthy, her face smeared in dirt and soot. Her clothes were in no better state: a tattered, muddy brown trench coat too big for her; worn, old-fashioned trousers, also oversized; big, mud-caked men's work boots. Her dark, equally dirty hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. And she was thin, horribly thin. She was olive-skinned and she was staring at Enjolras with large, dark brown eyes like a doe's. She couldn't have been more than eighteen.

Enjolras coughed meaningfully, at a loss of what to do. He would feel guilty about leaving this poor girl here, especially in her sorry state. He released a whooshing breath as Éponine's lower lip began to tremble and her eyes glazed over. "Listen," he said as gently as he could muster as tears began to paint clean stripes down her cheeks, "if you're lost, or if there's someone you want to ring … " He trailed off as she drew her knees to her chest, looking very small indeed. Like a lost child, alone for the first time on the city's feral streets.

"_You don't know me_," she whispered. "_You don't know me_." She shook her head at him. "But I don't understand. Even if you've forgotten me, then … whatever are you doing here in this strange place? Surely you must be as lost as I am! And, come to think of it," she added, "why aren't you at the barricades? What of Marius and Grantaire and the others? You _were_ there! I saw you there."

"Barricades?" Enjolras echoed. This was all bloody mental. Now setting his coffee aside too, he offered her an awkward pat on the back. "Listen," he said again. "It looks like we share some mutual friends, but I think you must've hit your head pretty hard." She blinked at him. "If you want, I can get you to my flat; it's just a couple blocks from here. We'll get you cleaned up or something, yeah? Then maybe you can give Marius a ring and we'll figure this whole thing out." He offered her his hand. It seemed to be the appropriate thing to do with a girl. He wasn't all that sure, though. Human interaction had never been his forte.

Éponine hesitated, then slowly nodded. She took his hand and he helped her to her feet. They started walking through the square. Enjolras noted how slow and shaky Éponine's steps were, and he passed her his coffee. Wordlessly, she took it, and took several small, hesitant sips as they walked and her tears dried. They said nothing all the way to his flat.

Enjolras flushed at the mess as they entered his flat. It was a reasonably spacious, comfortable place in a decent part of town, but ever since his flatmate Stephen had moved out after the rent had gone up, the place had become a bit of a wreck. Papers were strewn across the table and law textbooks were piled high in every available corner. Several articles of clothing were strewn about, too. But Éponine didn't seem to notice. Once Enjolras invited her in, the girl stood, hovering uncertainly near the door.

"D'you wanna sit down?" Enjolras offered, pointing at the sofa, and seemingly gratefully she picked her way across the floor and took a seat on the sofa, brushing aside a single sock. A pause, then Enjolras sat down next to her. It felt very domestic, as if he was getting a little too comfortable with this poor girl, but she didn't say anything. She kept her eyes trained on the bottom of her empty coffee cup, and Enjolras, raking a hand through his curly blonde hair, was forced to fill the silence. "So. You … said you know Marius?"

A small nod. "Yes. He was at the barricades with you and the rest of your friends. And my brother, too. Back at home — well, my home, at least. _You_ don't seem to know about home, or me." A gulp. "Enjolras … are you _from_ here?"

"From London, d'you mean? Well … yeah. I grew up here. And so did all my friends, including Marius and Grantaire."

Her eyes widened. "London, you say? Oh! Are we in _London_?" But then she frowned. "The one in England?"

"The one and only."

Éponine shook her head again. "No, no, that's impossible. I've not been to London, but I have seen illustrations of it. I have heard of it. It's not very different from Paris at all. But this place, it's strange and frightening."

Enjolras leaned forward. "You're from Paris? As in, Paris, France?" For the first time, she looked a bit pleased, and nodded. Enjolras paused and thought. "You say you're from Paris. And that … you know me and a few of my mates, but we're Londoners, the lot of us. Blimey, _I_ haven't even left this city in my life. And you say you woke up here and, what? Wandered 'round and found me?"

She nodded again, a little more in earnest. "Yes, exactly."

"Well … " Enjolras sighed, and again raked his hands through his curls. "Well." He looked round the room, contemplating it, as though an examination of his own home might disclose some information about the situation at hand. He spied his pants, draped over the lampshade, and blushing, reached over and grabbed them. Stuffed them under the sofa cushion. Thankfully, Éponine didn't seem to notice. Enjolras allowed himself a few more minutes to think, until at last he came to his ever-so-thoughtful conclusion.

"Well, I don't know what the hell is going on, either. And it looks like this is gonna be a tough one."


	2. Chapter 2

.

**New World for the Winning**

ESTIMATED LENGTH: 20 — 30 chapters

* * *

Chapter Two

…

After he said this, she stared at him. He had such a strange way of talking in this world, which she'd come to confusedly accept he was somehow a part of. His sentences were formed so casually and he used several terms and words she didn't know. Éponine shut her eyes tightly as the pain of her headache suddenly pulsated, as though her head was about to split in two. She gasped in pain softly as her hands, which had been holding the empty paper cup, suddenly went to her temples.

Somehow through the waves of sharp pain in her head, Enjolras' concerned voice found its way to her. "You all right, love?"

Éponine nodded weakly. "Yes," she lied. "I'm just a bit tired, you see. And my head aches quite terribly." A fresh wave of sharper pain caused her to emit a soft gasp. She winced and opened her eyes, looking up at him. "You must forgive my forwardness, sir, but … might you have a place where I can rest a bit? I don't need a bed, per se, this sofa will do nicely if you don't mind awfully much."

Enjolras started, then gave an abrupt nod and stood up. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, go on ahead." He pointed towards the small corridor leading away from what she had gathered to be a parlour and kitchen combined into one room. "Take the second door on the left; it's my old flatmate Stephen's room but he's moved out." Éponine glanced the way he was pointing, then thanked him and headed down the corridor. She took the second door to her left, as Enjolras had instructed. She opened the door slowly, peering inside before opening the door fully and entering the room.

What greeted her was what was clearly a bedroom. Éponine was glad to be met with something she was familiar with for once. The furniture was unusual but perfectly recognisable. Mind you, it had been a very long time since she'd had a bedroom; ever since moving to Paris she'd shared a rough canvas mattress with Azelma in a corner of their tiny, grimy one-room apartment. This room had a neatly made bed, but the bed frame seemed to be made of metal and the blankets weren't made of cotton or wool or even pelt. There was an unused desk with a chair _on wheels_, and against the far wall a small dresser free of clutter.

Éponine shed her muddy brown coat and draped it over the chair-back, kicked off her boots, then tugged away the blankets and crawled into the bed. She was met with instantaneous satisfaction. The bed was soft and comfortable, and the pillow she rested her head on was comfortable too, though it seemed to be stuffed with something other than feathers. A small sigh escaped her as she closed her eyes and tugged the blankets closer to her, not even caring how dirty she was and that she would be sure to soil these clean blankets. She simply shut her eyes and mind to the new world she found herself in and not a minute later, she'd fallen asleep.

…

Enjolras, meanwhile, was not quite as relaxed. Kicking aside the books and other miscellaneous items that were scattered across the floor, he took to pacing and raking his hands through his blond curls. At the moment he seemed capable of producing only one thought — or more accurately, one curse — which bounced around in his head, repeated itself on a loop in his mind: _bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell, _like a mantra. This was simply beyond him.

The day had barely begun, but the 21-year-old law student felt as though he'd been up all night: he was beyond exhausted. Which was ironic, really, because last night had been the first in a while that he'd allowed himself a proper rest. Enjolras dropped heavily onto the sofa, buried his face in his palms, and groaned loudly into them. _Bloody hell_.

He remembered what Éponine had said about being familiar with Marius and Grantaire. He considered giving them a ring, but decided he should talk to Éponine a little bit longer first, once she woke up. She could be drunk, or similarly, suffering the after-effects of a hangover. She could have hit her head. Or, he thought grimly, she could simply be mad. Whatever the reason, he wanted to let her rest and talk to her some more. See if he could extract the smallest kernel of sense out of this bizarre situation.

To pass the time and to clear his poor head, Enjolras tried to tidy up the rubbish heap that his flat had developed into. Shelve the stray books. Stack the papers and stuff them into one corner. Gather up articles of clothing and deposit them into the laundry hamper, though some of those items might have still been clean for all he knew. Round up dirty dishes and cups, stuff them into the dishwasher. In the state his flat was in, this took Enjolras all of an hour and a half.

By the time he was finally done, he checked in on Éponine, but the girl was still asleep. Only half-realising how invasive his behaviour was, he stood in the doorway for a little and watched her sleep. She slept in an awkward position that couldn't have been very comfortable, curled up into a tight ball on the very edge of the bed. Occasionally, her body would jerk out of its foetal position and her feet kicked furiously into the tangle of blankets; all the while Éponine made small whimpering noises, like a wounded animal. Then she would curl back into foetal position and resume slumber. He must have watched her for two or three minutes before he snapped back to reality and backed out of the room.

Here he wandered back to the sofa and again collapsed onto it, his limbs suddenly weighed down by the matter at hand, and by just how perplexing it all was. Enjolras sighed miserably. There was little left to do at the moment other than sit about and wait for Éponine to wake up. He could have read passages from one of his law textbooks, but at that moment his classes were at the very back of Enjolras' mind, all but forgotten. So he simply waited.

He sat.

He paced.

He tried to watch some telly and couldn't focus.

He paced some more.

It was then, over another hour and a half later, that Éponine emerged, now having shed her overcoat, from Stephen's old bedroom, blinking the sleep from her eyes and rubbing her hands over her face. She still seemed a bit disoriented, and Enjolras looked up and crossed the room to put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened under his touch but looked up slowly to face him. Sloe brown eyes met piercing blue. Then Éponine shrugged him off and wandered over to the sofa, leaned against it and offered the young man a wavering smile that didn't meet her eyes. Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest and hovered near the bookshelf on the other side of the room. It was then that he noticed the blood.

Under her heavy, muddy brown overcoat, Éponine had been wearing an old-fashioned chemise with a collar, which, like everything else she wore, absolutely dwarfed her. But just above her hip was a large red bloodstain half gone dry to a crusty reddish-brown. In other places, it clung to her skin, sticky and scarlet. He stared, wide-eyed, at the blood before stammering out ever so eloquently, "Oh, my God, you're bleeding. T-that's blood."

Éponine looked down and gingerly touched at the bloodstain, pulling a face. "Yes," she said, nodding. "Yes, I know. But besides a little aching, you oughtn't fuss; I'm really perfectly all right. There's just a small scar under all that blood — that's the other thing, you see, that's so very strange, Enjolras. Another thing I can't puzzle out at all. Before I woke here, I was shot, and I was dying. And then, when I _did_ wake, the wound that ought to have killed me hurt quite a bit, but the only trauma there was some scarring, like an old injury long since healed. And yet … my shirt is still soaked in blood. It's all _very_ odd, isn't it?"

Enjolras could only bring himself to stare at her. "You were _shot_? By who? I mean … we ought to call the police, or … oh, Jesus … "

She seemed impatient with him. "I told you, sir, that I was shot at the barricades. Heavens, you really don't know, do you?" She shook her head. "A soldier shot me. A soldier _sent_ there, _by _the police." Suddenly Éponine seemed overtaken with a look of despair. "Oh, Enjolras, I don't at all know what is happening or where I am or why you are part of this strange world without a clue about who I am or even your beloved cause, but you must listen to me when I tell you that you must not call the police."

He shook his head. "I don't know what the hell to do, Éponine. But … if you're okay, I mean, if you're not hurt _now_ … "

"I'm truly not."

"Well, okay. That's weird too. But fine, if you insist I'm not gonna call the police." Enjolras looked her up and down and offered her a sympathetic smile. "But before we try to figure anything out, how would you like to wash up? I have some clothes might fit you."

…

He led her to a room he referred to as the "lav," and when Éponine stared at him in puzzlement he said, "Look, I'll show you, love," and led her down the corridor to a room at the far end. He pushed open the door and waved somewhat awkwardly into the room behind it. "Well, there you are then. The lav."

He leaned in the doorway so casually, regarded the room beyond as thought it was the most ordinary thing in the world. But Éponine could not help but allow her mouth to fall open into a small, perfectly round _O_ as she goggled at it, and passed through the doorway with small steps for her wonderment, trying to take in the splendour of it. For just past that door was a room that, like most parts of this world she found herself in, was beyond imagination.

It was so clean, almost literally sparkling clean, and grand, too, despite its small size. The walls and floor were covered in tiles of a smooth, ivory-coloured stone, arranged in perfect alignment of one another. A small window overlooked the street, under which was a rack draped in a kind of brightly coloured rough cloth. In the far corner of the room was a tall booth-like structure made of glass, and behind the glass panels, on the wall, could be seen a collection of silvery knobs. Éponine was drawn to this in particular, and she brushed her fingers against the perfect glass panels, half-expecting them to disintegrate at her touch. But no, as she touched it the glass remained, sturdy and smooth and cool. A smile, a real smile, blessed her lips as she whipped around to face Enjolras. "Oh, but it's beautiful!" she exclaimed.

He raised his eyebrows. "It's just a lavatory," he said slowly. "But never mind that. Er … that's my towel just there, you can use it if you want; I'm not sure if I have any others … and you can use my soap and shampoo too — it's just on the little shelf in the shower there. So yeah. Knock yourself out. I'll see if I can find you some clothes and drape them over the top of the door if you like, in the meantime." Enjolras smiled teasingly. "Don't worry; I won't look at you."

Éponine pointed hesitantly at the glass structure. "Forgive me, but … is _this_ the shower? This booth here?" When Enjolras nodded, she shook her head, not seeing how she would be able to wash herself in that little box. "But what of the water? Is there a well, or a pump?"

"You just turn the knobs." He spoke slowly, as one might to a child or a simple-minded elderly relative. "And the water … er, comes out, I guess. It's not hard to do; you'll get it." He offered her a sympathetic smile. "And don't worry, after this we'll ring Marius and Grantaire and maybe a little after that things'll begin coming back to you." He then backed hastily out of the room, and closed the door behind him, leaving it open just a crack. Éponine stared after him a moment. She didn't like the way he'd taken to looking at her — reservation behind his eyes, hesitance. As if she were — well, as if she were mad, or had gone a bit simple.

But she dwelled on that no further, for she stripped out of her clothes and left them in a heap on the pristine white floor. Then, after a bit of fiddling, she slid the shower doors aside and stepped into the booth, then shut them behind her.

Éponine quickly worked out that turning the blue knob produced cold water, which rained down from a circular panel above her head in streams; the red knob produced hot. She also discovered that with a little fiddling she could bring the water to a comfortable lukewarm temperature. It was a miracle! She stood under the running water for a long time, and she enjoyed the feeling of it so much that she almost forgot to scrub away what dirt and grime the water couldn't rinse off. The shelf Enjolras had mentioned was just at her left elbow. There was a bar of pale blue soap that smelled sweet, like lavender, which she used to scrub herself clean with, and a coloured bottle of some viscous liquidy substance she couldn't work out how to use. After rinsing the soap off her body and from her normally tangled ebony locks, she figured out how to shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, drying herself with the rough cloth.

It was a great relief to be clean. Éponine had not been clean at all for a very long time. Living as she had, alternating between the streets of Paris and a tiny, dirty flat in the slums of the city, it had been impossible to stay clean for very long. There had been a washtub in their apartment in the Gorbeau Tenement, but she'd hardly ever used it. Normally Éponine had avoided home as much as she could anyway. But for the first time she could remember since childhood, her body was totally clear of dirt and grime. Enjoying the feeling of cleanliness in solitude, Éponine suddenly felt almost as if she'd been born anew.

Putting on the unusual clothes he'd left her, true to his word, she traipsed out of the "lav," finding Enjolras sitting with slumped shoulders on the sofa. He looked up as she joined him, and offered her a dipping of the head by way of acknowledgment. His fingers were laced together, and he seemed to be deep in thought, as the Enjolras Éponine had known so often was. She was pleased to see familiar behaviour coming from this echo of him, but her curiosity and wonderment proved too much for her. "Where does the water come from?" she blurted.

Enjolras looked up, seeming bewildered. "Well," he said with hesitation and uncertainty in his voice. "The water comes from the pipes."

"_Oh_," she said, nodding, then cocked her head to one side like a curious puppy. "And where, pray tell, do the pipes get it, then?"

"Er," was his reply. "From … wherever it is the pipes get it. Y'know, I don't even know for certain. The Thames?"

Éponine nodded slowly again. She knew of the Thames, of course, having studied London's famous river in Geography class, back when she had attended school. It was London's own equivalent of the Seine. Enjolras' answers confused her, but she did not want to press him. And luckily for her, she had no need to, for presently the young man asked her, "So. Shall we give Marius a ring, then?"

…

The mid-June sky was a clear, piercing blue, untainted save for a few clouds sitting plump and fluffy in the sky like semicolons, hinting of more to come. But what did that matter, for it wasn't raining just now. The early summer air was warm and fresh, but the feeling of it was nothing compared to the lightness in Cosette's heart as she trotted down the steps of her secondary school early that afternoon. She'd just written her last exam of her second-last year in secondary school, and that was a rewarding feeling. Her summer had officially begun, and she didn't have to worry about a single more assignment, test, or Maths problem until September, and that was a long way away. Right now, she was free.

And waiting for her, sitting on a bench facing the school, was Marius, her boyfriend. He raised a hand in greeting when he saw her, and Cosette, thrilled, ran to him and threw her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek. "It's over," she said gleefully upon pulling away, "it's done."

"For now," Marius teased her. "You still have an entire year of secondary left. I'm glad to report _I'm_ done with secondary school; I'm well into uni."

She shook her head and teasingly punched his shoulder. "Oh, shut up, you. Don't go ruining my good mood." Cosette dropped onto the bench next to him. "I rang Papa before the exam and told him I'd muck around with you when I was done; he said yes already." She beamed. "Do you want to come over? He's at work until late today; we'll have the rest of the afternoon to ourselves, Marius."

They agreed to go to her flat and muck about, as Cosette had suggested. Maybe start a marathon of watching her treasured _Harry Potter_ movies for the nth time, get through as many as they could. And sit around in her room and chat for a bit. Stop for ice cream along the way. Cosette had been so busy revising for her exams that she hadn't had much time to spend with her boyfriend over the past month, and these moments were theirs. They had the entire summer ahead of them, and most of it would be spent in each other's presence.

Cosette and her father never went away in the summertime. Aside from one short nature trip to Weymouth when she'd been eleven, they'd not even left London since she'd been adopted at age seven. And that was fine by her. Her adoptive "Papa" was a well-off man that was kind and loving to boot; they had a nice flat in a nice part of town. And London was such a busy city that Cosette never found herself at a loss of what to do: browsing for small treasures in secreted second-hand bookshops; visiting the Natural History Museum despite the fact that she had gone so many times she could have passed through the exhibits blindfolded; idly wandering Hyde Park and Green Park; purchasing low-price standing room tickets for West End shows. And since she had started going out with Marius early last autumn, she now had a beloved boyfriend to share her lazy summer days with, too. Marius himself wasn't about to leave London in the summer either: he'd more or less cut off all contact with his family shortly after finishing secondary school and didn't have the funds to go on holiday. So this summer they would spend together, (and occasionally meet up with Marius' group of quirky university friends, all of with whom Cosette was reasonably well-acquainted and whom she generally liked). Their age gap mattered little. Nobody cared that Cosette was only seventeen and still in secondary school, whereas Marius was all of twenty and taking law at uni. And if anyone _did_ care, then Marius and Cosette would pay them no mind.

Yes, the summer was young and stretched on ahead of them like an elastic, seemingly endless. Filled with images of future pleasurable moments they conjured in their minds, simplistic happiness, just like their own lives.

They stopped for ice cream and had two scoops each (lemon sorbet and strawberry for Cosette, mango and cookies-n-cream for Marius), licked their cones happily as they went along hand-in-hand. Not much later they reached the flat complex where Cosette lived, and she produced the key to her apartment. It was a spacious and attractive but not pretentious apartment in the Chelsea district. Closing the door behind her, Cosette made a beeline for her room with Marius at her tail. The seventeen-year-old girl flopped backwards onto her bed with a drawn-out contented sigh. "Life," she said simply and frankly, "is good."

Marius flashed her a teasing grin. "Especially when your boyfriend's in it," he said, and pounced on her, took to tickling her. Cosette shrieked and rolled around on the bed, begged him to let her go in gasps between her giggles. But he tickled her relentlessly, and only stopped when his mobile vibrated and rang in his pocket. She took advantage of the moment by worming out of his arms and pressing herself against the headboard.

"Go," she said, eyeing his pocket. "Answer it; I don't mind."

Reluctantly, Marius did, checking the caller ID as he removed his phone from his pocket. It was Enjolras. The fact that Enjolras was calling him was surprising: this could hardly be a social call. But Marius did as Cosette suggested and answered. "Hello?"


	3. Chapter 3

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Three

…

The rain released its wrath upon London not much later, the grey clouds that had slowly been gathering in the sky suddenly cracked open in a rage. It found the carefully tended beds of flowers planted in the tiny gardens in front of row houses and flats; the gutter-pipes, the dirty awning of shops. The rain also found Marius and Cosette, who were walking rapidly down the sidewalk with their shoulders hunched and the hoods of their jumpers tugged up over their heads. Neither had thought to bring an umbrella, so they were both properly soaked through by London's rain.

They were planning on taking the Underground to Enjolras' flat, but the nearest stop was a few blocks from Cosette's home, which meant that both Marius and Cosette were in for a very unpleasant, very wet ride on the tube. Meanwhile, Cosette was trying to come to terms with the unusual news her boyfriend's best friend had delivered: "And this girl, she just _showed up_ out of the blue?"

"Yep," Marius confirmed. "Enjolras said he sat next to her at the park and she shouted his name and hugged him, I think." He shook his head, scattering water droplets everywhere. "Mental, isn't it? She seemed to know some of our names, but I've never heard hers in my life either."

"Sure about that?" asked Cosette. "Marius, if she's some old girlfriend of yours you don't have to _hide_ it from me; I won't get up_set_." The thought that Marius might be mucking about with this girl, Éponine, whoever she was, as well as Cosette, never occurred to her. Marius was not a lady's man in the least, and was definitely not the type to cheat on his girlfriend. He was too mild-mannered for that.

"She's not," was Marius' honest response, just as they reached the Underground station and began darting down the stairs for cover. "You're my first girlfriend, Cosette. I wouldn't lie to you. I love you too much for that," he added with a tiny smile as he turned around and waggled his eyebrows.

"I know you wouldn't," Cosette answered, fishing her Oyster card from her pocket. "I was only asking. Now, c'mon, once we get there, maybe it'll make more sense." She shrugged, having reached the barrier, and swiped her card. After this, they sat side-by-side the entire train ride, fingers intertwined but saying nothing. Both Marius and Cosette were preoccupied in thinking about the puzzling affair at hand that Enjolras had brought to light. And, puzzling though it was, neither of them could deny that it certainly started off the summer with a big bang.

_Éponine_. So, who _could_ this poor girl be, then? Cosette found herself staring emptily into an advert posted on the wall across from her. It featured a beautiful model with glossy dark hair blowing back dramatically in the wind, and promised consumers hair just like hers if only they rushed out to the nearest drugstore to buy a certain brand of shampoo. Cosette blew out threw her lips and murmured the name to herself. "Éponine … " A sudden thought struck her, out of nowhere, and she knit her brows together. "Éponine … 'Ponine."

Marius glanced at her. "Hey?"

Cosette sat up straighter, her eyes widening. "That name. Éponine. The name of the girl. I … all right, you're gonna think I'm mental, but — I think maybe I've heard it before. It rings a bell." She shook her head and gave a little scoff. "But I don't have a bleeding clue where from. Isn't that strange?"

"You just think you've heard it before."

"No. It really does remind me of something. I just don't know what of." Just then, the familiar automated female voice announced they had arrived at Russell Square, and then, once the train stopped and the doors opened, they were reminded to _mind the gap, please_. Cosette stood, but Marius remained seated until she swatted him on the arm. "C'mon, then. It's time to try and start figuring this whole thing out. We're here already."

The walk to Enjolras' flat wasn't long, but it was still raining hard. Though Marius and Cosette had managed to dry off a little on the Underground, they just became wetter still as soon as they stepped outside. Despite the rain, they ran along the sidewalk, leaping over puddles and holding each other's hands tightly. They laughed a little. And that was how, five minutes later, they appeared on Enjolras' doorstep, shivering and dripping a small puddle beneath them. The water spread rapidly, and the two puddles merged to become one larger one.

Marius raised a hand to knock, but before he could do so, the door opened. Enjolras stood on the other side, and upon seeing them both he breathed a little sigh of relief. "There you are. I heard footsteps coming up the steps … " He lowered his voice. "Brace yourselves, Marius, Cosette. Believe it or not, things've gotten even madder."

…

It had actually been Éponine who'd heard the footsteps coming up. She had been curled up in a little ball on the sofa with her knees drawn to her chest, but upon hearing feet coming up the stairs, she tensed and swung her gaze over to Enjolras. "Do you believe that's them?" When he gave her a puzzled look, she jerked her head in the direction of the front door. "Footsteps, sir."

Which left them where they were now, with Enjolras speaking to two figures, both of whom he blocked with his body. His voice was low, and though Éponine was sharp of hearing and skilled at eavesdropping, she could not hear his words. Then Enjolras stepped aside to let the figures through, and not for the first time today Éponine's heart skipped a beat.

Oh, yes, it was them. Marius and Cosette. Why, it was uncanny. Though they were dressed in the same strange tight-fitting clothes all people of this world seemed to wear, and Cosette was wearing trousers like a man, Éponine would recognise her love and the Lark anywhere. Marius, tall and handsome, with his stubborn nut-brown curls; his warm green eyes; his lovely freckled face; his full lips. Lips that Éponine had been longing to kiss for so long. And that Cosette, slim and just as striking as she had been in Paris. A pale, oval-shaped face lit by bright blue eyes and perfect pink lips and framed with long ash blonde locks.

Yes, here they were, unchanged; standing in the middle of Enjolras' parlour, looking at Éponine. And both of them without a hint of recognition on their faces. Éponine felt her heart sink lower still, down to her feet, as she lowered her head in greeting. "Hello, Mr Marius." She did not address Cosette.

Looks were exchanged, until at last Marius raised a sheepish hand in greeting. "Hullo. You must be Éponine." His lips spread into a warm little smile, a friendly one. It was a smile Éponine had seen on his face so often in Paris, and directed at _her_ when he'd known her, that she found herself tempted to shake him by the shoulders. Force some memory back into his mind and shake out some explanation for all this madness. Shake him by the shoulders, she thought, or slap him.

But Éponine did not shake Marius by the shoulders or slap him across the face. "Yes," was all she said in a small voice. "Yes. I am Éponine." More looks, thoughts expressed in flickering glances and raised brows.

At last Enjolras crossed the room and joined her on the sofa. He looked up at Marius and Cosette (who seemed to know him in this world, which Éponine knew she hadn't in her own) with a look of mild desperation on his handsome face. "So you don't … "

"Recognise her?" Cosette offered, biting her lip. She shook her head apologetically. "No. Sorry." This last word seemed to be directed more at Éponine than at Enjolras. Then she left Marius' side and sat next to Éponine, resting slim hands on her trouser-clad lap. Out of instinct, Éponine, for her part, stiffened. Her feelings of resentment towards the Lark began to boil, but Cosette seemed oblivious to this as she offered Éponine a genuine friendly smile. "Well, hi, then. I'm Cosette. I don't know if you … knew that or not, but … "

"I do," Éponine said hollowly, staring ahead. If she had to speak with the Lark, she would not do the girl the luxury of looking at her while she did so. "You are Cosette, and you are in love with Marius. You live in Paris on Rue Plumet — at Number 5, if I am to be specific."

Cosette seemed flustered. "I live here in London. In Chelsea."

Éponine snorted. "So you all do, it seems."

Enjolras took his duty as the leader and clapped his hands together in what was clearly an attempt to ease the tension that hung stale in the air. "So, then," he said, and cleared his throat before going on. "Éponine. You're here. And you know all of us — well, you think you do, anyway — and you're from Paris. And according to you, so are all of us. But this is London. All of us are from here." He concluded his clarification speech by releasing a whooshing breath. "And all this is bleedin' mental."

"Shall I tell all I know from the beginning again?" Éponine interrupted dully. Enjolras had already tried asking her a few questions, but their combined attempts to make sense of what was going on had only resulted in further confusion, and frustration on both their parts. Nothing made any sense, but she knew that Marius and Cosette were going to want to hear her side of the story as they, too, tried to make sense of this madness. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cosette nod, so with a weary sigh Éponine told her half of the story.

"In my city, Paris, I was good friends with Mr Marius here. And he, in turn, was lover to Cosette. Your friends, Marius, were students and radical revolutionaries trying to bring freedom to the people and to overthrow the King." She sensed that Marius was about to interrupt, but she cut him off and continued. "You were led by Mr Enjolras, and you all set up barricades in the streets and armed yourselves with rifles. Then the Army arrived and attacked your barricades. I took a bullet for Mr Marius, alas, and he held me. He held me as I died. And I thought I _had_ died, but then I awoke here, in a strange world I did not know called London. I wandered about for a little and ran into Enjolras, whom I instantly recognised." Éponine paused to suck in a shuddering breath. "But it seems … that he did not know me, had never heard my name, though while admittedly we were not close we had spoken on a few occasions. And it seems to me that you, Enjolras, and Marius, and all the rest of your friends are somehow a part of this world. You call it London, but it cannot be. And you all claim to be speaking English, but I am speaking French and I hear the same language coming from your lips. Oh! It's all such a bother, and makes no _damn_ sense." Having finished, Éponine breathed heavily. She half-expected to be reprimanded for her curse, but was met only by silence.

There followed a silence that hung in the air with a bitter stench, until Cosette broke in. "Well, that … oi. That sounds like the French Revolution!" She looked up at Marius, her eyes widening. It didn't help much, but it did clarify Éponine's story somewhat. Éponine, however, broke in with a scoff.

"Why, the French Revolution was_ years_ ago. Well before my own birth, I'll thank you to note."

"Well — of course it was. It was before any of us were … " Cosette trailed off, and then an idea struck her. Enjolras had said that Éponine didn't seem to know much about everyday appliances, namely the shower. It didn't explain much, but it was a start, a bit of help. "Éponine, how about you tell us the exact date? Year and all?"

Éponine looked over at her with scorn — unwarranted scorn, Cosette might add — and shook her head. "I don't see how it shall do any good," she said, "anymore than anything else has been tried before will, but all right." She paused to think, then nodded. "Ah, yes. Well, I don't remember down to the exact date, but we're in early June. June 1832," she added.

Silence reigned, until Marius and Enjolras began to come to understand Cosette's now proven theory. Éponine _must_ have been hit over the head somehow, and now she was suffering from a form of amnesia. Cosette herself didn't exactly know the formal term, but she had heard of cases of people hitting their heads and thinking they were living in past time periods. And this would explain (some parts of) Éponine's puzzling condition.

It explained her initial confusion as to what everyday devices were, because in her poor mind they had not been invented yet. Showers, mobiles, probably cars … Cosette reached over and patted Éponine on the back. "Ohh," she said gently, "I see. Well, Éponine, it's — not June 1832 anymore. Actually, it is June, but … Éponine, the year is 2015."

Éponine felt herself freeze up. For how was that possible? 2015 was nearly two hundred years in her future — actually, exactly two hundred years after her birth, for Éponine had been born in August 1815. Could her day have just gotten that much madder? That much more impossible?

The apparent answer was yes, and suddenly realising that the Lark was patting her back, a shocked and infuriated Éponine shrugged her off roughly. She noted with a hint of satisfaction that Cosette shrank back, clasping together her lovely little hands and resting them in her lap. She suddenly seemed a bit meek, an expression that Éponine had not seen on the girl's face since childhood.

The year could not be 2015, she decided. Éponine was clever, stubborn, and bewildered — a powerful combination. It was this combination that allowed her to refuse the illogic of the Lark's words, despite the utter illogic of this entire situation. She would have liked to say as much, and Éponine was not a girl to be delicate with her words. Instead, the only word she found herself capable of uttering in that moment was, "No."

"Yes." Enjolras' voice, gentle and patient and surprisingly lacking in its usual authority, brought her back to the world. Well, this world, wherever it might lie on the globe. "Yes, the year's 2015. It has been for six months now. I'm sorry; I know this probably comes as a proper shock. But hey. This makes a little more sense now." Éponine finally glanced at him, and he, in turn, offered her a tiny smile. "It looks like you got hit over the head somehow, and you forgot the year. But … you should be fine, and we'll try and see if we can contact your family. I bet they're worried sick about you, love."

Éponine snorted at that. Neither of her parents had shown much concern for her in eight years, and though she supposed her sister might be worried, her brother must think her dead, for she had seemingly died in front of him.

Now here was a thought that had never occurred to her before, and Éponine took it like a punch to the heart. She had died in front of her little brother. He thought her dead, and now he was probably going to get himself killed on those barricades too. Had she not been in front of others (and especially that Lark) then Éponine might have wept. But a few years of harsh experience had trained her to suppress her tears, and she used them sparingly.

"But … " she argued, her voice rising with her mounting confusion and well-hidden fear, "It _cannot_ be. The year was 1832, I know that. And if in Paris, where I came from, I had asked any of you, you would have told me the same thing. Forgive me, but this … this is impossible. I know all of this seems impossible, but it simply _cannot be 2015_."

Another uncomfortable silence followed, and for a moment Éponine wondered if her forceful words had worked some sense into their heads, but to her dismay, it was Marius who answered her. He'd not spoken much since his arrival, but now he did, and in the same gentle, patient, tender, kind tone that had contributed to her first falling in love with him. Kindness in the face of her status as an urchin. "Éponine, I'm really sorry. But Enjolras and Cosette are right. The year is 2015, and you're in London, and it looks like you took a nasty hit over the head. And also like Enjolras said, we'll try to work this out, love."

_Love_. It took all of Éponine's willpower not to bark out a bitter laugh just then. Or burst into tears. So what she did was she bowed her head and hid it behind a curtain of dark, tangled hair.

She was so busy nursing her own heartbreak that she found herself slipping into a private mental world, and it took several repetitions of her name before she realised Enjolras was speaking to her. She blinked. "Oh — forgive me. What was that?"

Enjolras coughed meaningfully. "I said, in the meantime, how would you like to stay and live with me a bit?"

Éponine's eyes widened. "Oh. Well, that is most kind of you. I … if it is of no great inconvenience, sir … " She had not put much thought into where she would be staying until she found a way home again, but the default was the street. "Would I not trouble you?"

"Not much," he said teasingly. Then, in a more serious tone: "But really. I'd be happy to have you. I've got the extra room, and we can't have you wandering the streets again. My parents wouldn't care, either," he added, with a glance up at Marius. Éponine nodded vigorously, and in deep gratitude. Enjolras chuckled and clapped his hands together. "Well, at least there's two things settled, then."

…

As there was little for them to do, Marius proposed he and Cosette leave shortly after that. Cosette was hesitant, but eventually she agreed with a promise to help out whenever possible. Then the young couple made their hasty exit. Marius could tell his girlfriend was deep in thought on the trek to the nearest bus stop. (Not the Underground; they were both in a mood to take a bus ride in the improved weather. It had finally stopped raining, and thankfully they got to dry off a little better in the new sun on the short walk). And Marius suspected he knew what she was thinking about; what else could she be pondering on other than the girl Éponine? There was a puzzle to work on, and this puzzle had smaller puzzles nested within it. To name one: it had been obvious that Éponine resented Cosette, not that she had any reason to. Cosette had never met Éponine before today; ergo, could never have done anything to upset her.

Unless, of course, Éponine _thought_ so.

Marius spent most of the walk watching Cosette think, and was careful not to interrupt her train of thought. There wasn't really any denying that she had the brains between the two of them, and she seemed to be making more sense of this situation than Marius anyway. It was only when they reached the bus stop that she spun on Marius, her blue eyes lit up and a broad smile across her face. He, for his part, looked at her blankly. "Have you worked something out?"

She laced her fingers together. "Oh. Well. No. Not yet, anyway. But blimey. All this, eh? What a way to kick off the summer." Cosette leaned against a post, and looked up at Marius, offering him her most provocative tongue-in-the-teeth smile. "It's all a bit … _timey-wimey_, don't you reckon?"

Marius rolled his eyes. "This is _not_ a _Doctor Who_ episode, Cosette. We aren't in one of your fictional universes. Éponine is just some poor girl who hit her head too hard and got it into her mind that she's a French girl from the 19th century."

"Yes, I _know_," was the impatient response. "But you've got to admit it's starting to sound like one. Girl claims to wake up in an alley after apparently dying in 1832, then meets a bunch of future English parallels of all her friends none of whom know a thing about her for their parts? Face it, Marius. That is timey-wimey. Real life timey-wimey. I'm going to talk to Papa about it over supper," she added, as an afterthought. "Maybe he'll have something to say about this." She cocked her head to one side. "That barricade thing she mentioned sounds like an uprising or rebellion, doesn't it? We should try and do some research … "

…

"Hungry?"

The words pulled Éponine from her reverie, and from her spot on the sofa her head snapped up to look at Enjolras. "Pardon?" she asked, going a bit pink for her lack of attention. After all, Enjolras had been talking to her, and after all he was offering her, he deserved that attention.

"I said, are you hungry?" Enjolras was now on the other side of the room, leaning in a doorway. "I'm not much a cook, mind, but … the kitchen's just past this door here, and you probably want something to eat."

_Something to eat_. Now that was most inviting. Éponine had always been hungry in Paris, and she couldn't recall the last time she'd eaten a proper meal. Sometimes she had had stale scraps of bread from the bakery, or half-rotten fruits and vegetables bought cheap from the market. Sometimes she stole fruits and cheese from the market, too, and on other days she stole pastries and meat pies that were cooling outside bakeries, if no one was looking. The good food she had always been sure to split in three to share with her brother and sister. And sometimes Mr Marius offered her half of his meals, but Éponine only ever obliged when her hunger won over her pride, and this was a rare occurrence.

It was a bit ironic, really, because as a gutter rat, survival was always put in front of honour. But whenever she was in front of Mr Marius, these two fell into battle, fighting inside her on either side of her heart.

But she was devastatingly hungry, though in the scope of all that had happened she'd not had time to realise it. And right now, without Mr Marius there, her sense of pride was rather low. So she nodded vigorously. "If you have anything to offer, sir, then yes; _please_. I am most thankful." She blushed. "You are very kind."

Enjolras shrugged. "It's not really a problem. Is soup all right? Afraid that's all I can really make … " Really, Enjolras had a few packages of processed food in the freezer, but he didn't want to confuse Éponine. She was sure not to recognise them, and while the soup he was referring to came from a can, she would probably know what it was.

Éponine nodded again. "Soup would be lovely. Thank you." Enjolras disappeared into the kitchen and Éponine, after some hesitation, determinedly got to her feet and followed him. She didn't really want to sit in the parlour doing nothing, and she was curious, too, as to what sights a kitchen in this world might have to offer.

As soon as she entered the kitchen, she felt as though she had stepped into another world altogether. Despite having seen some breathtaking sights today only in the constraints of Enjolras' apartment, she could not even have begun to imagine a room as impressive and curious as this one, small though it was.

When she had been living in Paris, there had been no kitchen in their tiny one-room flat; not even a stove, but there had been a large kitchen at the family inn in Montfermeil before its business had started suffering and they'd been forced to close down. But even that kitchen hadn't had much in it: a wooden counter-top on which to chop meat and vegetables; a small wood stove in the corner; a few cupboards; a large, deep washbasin; a small table for two near the stove at which Éponine and Azelma had taken most of their meals when the inn was busy and all tables in the eating room were occupied. Pots and pans had been stowed away in one of the cupboards while pots of herbs and, later, ever-accumulating bottles of liquor had sat in a neat row on a shelf above the counter.

This was the only kitchen Éponine had ever known, but this one was filled with the most curious of contraptions. And how clean it was, too! The state of orderliness was especially bewildering considering the messy state Enjolras' parlour had been in.

A countertop hugged all the walls of the small rectangular room, but it seemed to be made not of wood, but of marble. Fancy that! Marble countertops! Cupboards painted dark blue were hanging above the surrounding countertop, their doors made of a foggy, translucent glass. And there was a sort of steel basin _embedded _into section of the counter, just under the window, which faced the street. Also along the counter, here and there, were strange-looking contraptions of metal home to many buttons, dials, and knobs. There was a large, gleaming metal box with two compartments taller than Éponine herself. She brushed her fingers against it and was surprised to discover it was cool, and when she concentrated, humming slightly. She couldn't help it; she tugged back with a tiny laugh of wonderment before going to touch the box again.

"That's called a fridge," Enjolras informed her. He had gotten a gleaming steel pot out of the cupboard and was now filling it with a viscous red substance from a cylindrical object. "Re-frig-er-ator," he clarified, enunciating each syllable. "Fridge for short. It stores food and keeps it cold."

"How does it manage that?" Éponine murmured, wide-eyed, as her fingers found the handle to the lower compartment. Without waiting another moment, she opened the door. She was greeted by a mild blast of cold air, and a surprisingly bulky interior. The _fridge_ was also surprisingly empty, containing only a few vegetables and a large glass bottle of milk. After gazing inside a minute, she shut the door again and turned her attention to Enjolras.

In the time it took to cook the soup, there were many other things Éponine marvelled at; new contraptions she discovered — _microwave, food processor, blender_. She was grateful to Enjolras for explaining everything to her with such patience. He told her the function of everything that kindled her curiosity, and it struck her that, although she was in a strange new world in an even stranger situation, she liked this Enjolras better than the one she'd known in Paris.


	4. Chapter 4

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Four

…

The soup was composed of a thick, viscous red liquid that sat as if congealed in the bowl. Éponine sat on one end of the table, opposite Enjolras, gazing down into it, toying with the spoon in her hand. And then it was just her and him and the soup bowl in front of her. All that, and the ticking of the clock, forever reminding them of the awkwardness of the situation.

Éponine looked up at Enjolras, who was seated just across the table from her, tapping his foot and staring down at his own soup.

She returned her gaze to the soup. It looked much too thick to be soup, she reasoned. Who ever got it into their minds to label this … _substance_ as soup? Éponine knew her soup, being an innkeeper's daughter, and she recognised soup to be vegetables and sometimes chunks of meat (if luck would allow it) swimming in broth.

"Well, aren't you hungry?" Enjolras, speaking, his voice coming from in front of her. Éponine's head snapped up and she stared at him, wide-eyed. Before her, Enjolras sighed. "It's tomato soup," he said patiently. "I'm guessing you didn't have soup like that in … your Paris?" Éponine shook her head and he nodded, chuckled. "It's good; you'll like it. Try some."

Her thin fingers stroked the metal of the spoon, and then she ducked her head. She took time to position the spoon properly in her hand, trying to remember how a lady held her cutlery. It had been a long time since she'd eaten food with cutlery. Ever since moving to Paris, on the rare occasion she got soup, she and her sister Azelma had taken the bowls in their hands and raised them to their mouths, had drunken from them like savages. With some fiddling, the spoon found a position in her hands that felt comfortable but not overly so, and she then dipped it into the bowl. Her gaze flickered upwards again, seeking for some sign of approval from Enjolras. A nod, perhaps? But he was only just starting to eat his own soup, so after a pause she rose the spoon to her lips and slurped.

At the slurp, her ears went pink, and to top it off she burned her tongue for the soup's heat. It had a strange but far from unappealing taste — tangy, sort of, but alive with flavour. Éponine looked sheepishly up at Enjolras. "Forgive my ill manners, sir," she hastened to say. "I — didn't mean to be so unladylike."

Enjolras stared at her blankly, and didn't answer. Éponine knew him to be a gentleman and wondered if perhaps she had offended him terribly. She must have done. Surely even in this strange world ladies were expected to be mild-mannered and quiet, after all? This had been a stifling rule for women so enforced in her society she couldn't imagine a world different in that regard. But Enjolras surprised her. He merely raised his own spoon to his lips and slurped too, more loudly than she had. Then he raised one pale brow at her, and his lips quirked up into a tiny smile. Éponine couldn't help it. She giggled some and took another spoonful of soup, slurping louder still.

This rapidly mounted into a game between the two of them, a little competition, and Éponine had trouble ceasing her giggles between slurps. She was happy to be naughty with him, and Enjolras seemed to be greatly enjoying himself too. They continued their game in this fashion until Éponine's hunger got the better of her. Next thing she knew, she was taking the bowl in her hands and raising it to her lips. She drank the soup until the bowl was drained, then set it down, gasping for breath and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she felt herself going pink again at Enjolras' look. "Forgive me," she repeated. "I was very hungry."

His blue eyes travelled up and down, scanning her. "You look it," he said at last, in a measured tone that was finely lined with sympathy. "Do you want anything else?" Now it was his turn to look sheepish as one hand reached up and he scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. "I mean, I haven't got all that much; I usually eat take-out, but … "

Éponine was torn. She worried the fabric of the oversized shirt she wore. She was hungry, very hungry. She yearned for more to eat. But she did not wish to inconvenience Enjolras, especially seeing as he was technically a stranger. And — she felt her spine go stiff in sudden realisation —what gall she had! How could she simply _sit_ here, acting foolish in indulging herself, when somewhere out there, Marius was fighting for the freedom of the people of his country? Was he dead already? And ... did he miss her terribly, now that he thought her dead?

"I want to return home," she said softly, more to herself than to Enjolras. "I want to find passage to France, and I want to find out what has happened to Marius and his friends and — oh, and my brother! He was fighting too, and he's only eleven years old! And _you_! _You_ were there, Enjolras. Fighting! You _all_ were." Without her meaning it to, her voice grew louder with every uttered word. Her tone grew more frantic until it was hovering on the edge of maddening desperation by the time she was finished monologuing. She stared at Enjolras, breathing hard, her eyes pleading with him.

Across the table, one of his hands reached out, asking to be taken. A pause, and then Éponine grasped tightly at it, intertwining her fingers in his pale ones. His voice came to her, gentle and patient. "Éponine," he said. "Éponine, remember how we said? You're _confused_, love. Listen to me. What's going on in the France you're speaking of … it _isn't_ happening. You're confused and we're gonna work all this out, but for now I need you to relax. Maybe your memory will come back to you soon, or maybe it won't, but my mates and I _will_ find a way to help you and to work out this mess. I promise," he added.

_And perhaps your memories of me will return soon, too?_ Éponine felt her eyes burn, prickle with the threat of oncoming tears, but she blinked several times, hard, until that threat had passed. "You don't know that," she said, softly but fiercely. "You don't know _me_."

He was looking at her, and she studied him with more scrutiny than she had before. Mostly she focused on his eyes. How honest they were, how gently pleading. Only Marius had ever really looked at her with such kindness before, and Éponine was alarmed to realise that she was drawn to Enjolras in the same way she had been drawn to Marius all those years ago. She realised she was much in a similar situation as she had been back then. Like a child, confused and lost. Great new city, great new world, what difference did it make? And here, against all odds, was somebody kind who wanted to help her. Éponine sighed. "I shall stay," she said at last, "if only I can find my way home eventually. I trust you," she added, as an afterthought.

A smile lit Enjolras' face and his hand slipped out of hers. "Good," he said. "Now, was there anything else you wanted to eat, then, love?"

Éponine hesitated. "If you don't mind terribly," she answered, "I shall have anything and everything you may have."

…

Evening came upon London, as it had always meant to have done. The clouds dispersed and the sky darkened into a bruised black. The streets were unusually quiet tonight, but for a lone figure walking down the street away from one of the small flat complexes. The figure fumbled in its pocket and produced an iPod, then earbuds. Then he turned and waved a cheerful goodbye — the temporary, carefree kind — to a girl waiting by a window in the flat complex. She waved back Then he turned, plugging the earbuds into his device and inserted them into his ears. He continued down the street to a Hendrix soundtrack, his ponderings on the day's unusual events lost to the music.

Cosette, meanwhile, stood waving at her street-facing bedroom window until Marius turned a corner, disappearing from sight. Then, with a sigh, the teenager flopped backwards onto her bed, blonde hair fanning out behind her head as she dropped. _What a day_.

After leaving Enjolras' flat, she and Marius had returned to her place. They'd talked about Éponine a little but hadn't been able to come up with any real conclusions. So in the end they'd gone by their original plan and had wound up mucking about, half-heartedly indulging themselves in a _Harry Potter_ movie and the supper Papa had left in the fridge for his daughter. That was one of the only things about her life and her relationship with her adoptive father that upset Cosette: he almost always worked from home, so she was used to him being there; but on the rare occasion he _did_ leave home he worked late enough for her to stop enjoying the freedom of being home alone and to start missing him. Quite a lot, actually.

Her gaze found the laptop on her desk and she wondered if perhaps she should start doing some research now when she was distracted by the sound of jingling keys coming from the hall. Cosette tensed and listened with bated breath. Sure enough, there followed the noise of a key entering the keyhole in the front door, and of a lock clicking. Cosette shot to her feet and raced into the foyer, and was there, smiling, as her father opened the door. "Hullo, Papa," she said as he stepped past the threshold. "You're late."

Her father shut the door behind him and set down his briefcase, enveloping his daughter in a quick hug with a "Hello to you, too, Pet." Cosette rose on her tiptoes a little to kiss his cheek and stepped away, a teasing stern look all over her face. She crossed her arms over her chest and appraised him.

"Late," she repeated.

Papa sighed tiredly, and rubbed his hands over his lined face. "Yes, well. Sorry about that. Did you eat?" At Cosette's nod, he picked up his briefcase and headed for his own room; Cosette trailed behind him. "How'd you exam go, then?"

"It was all right." She stopped in the doorway of his room and leaned against the doorframe. "And I met up with Marius after and all, but he just left." Then, unable to hold it in any longer, she sucked in a deep breath and exclaimed, "Day's been absolutely mad though, Papa. You won't believe it when I tell you!"

"Yeah?" he removed his jacket and tossed it onto the bed, not bothering to fold it, as usual. "Go on, then, because _my_ day was so dull you won't want to hear a thing about it." He exited the room, now heading for the kitchen, and Cosette followed after him. As Papa got out the pot of leftovers and placed it on the stove, she helped herself to a handful of crisps from the cupboard. Gave one a munch.

"_We-ell_," she said pointedly. "It's a long story, but basically … Papa, might as well ask you — does the name Éponine mean anything to you?"

"Éponine," her father repeated slowly, rolling the letters over his tongue as if trying to get a greater sense of their taste, their meaning, by enunciating. He paused to consider, then shook his head. "No, sorry, Pet. Why?"

Cosette stuffed the rest of the crisps into her mouth and crunched on them, twiddling with a strand of hair. She didn't really know how to explain the situation with Éponine. Trying to put an explanation to words just made it all seem even stranger. As she chewed and her father waited in patient expectance, she tried to come up with a coherent explanation but it wasn't easy. Once she'd eaten the crisps, she sighed and looked back up at Papa. "Like I said. It's … mental. And hard to believe; hard to explain." She shrugged and offered him a tiny smile. "Maybe you want to sit down for this, Papa."

Her perplexed father dutifully dropped onto a nearby stool and rested his hands in his lap like an obedient child at story time. Cosette tugged herself up to sit on the counter, perched precariously on the edge of it with her legs dangling over the side. She toed the air as if dipping her feet into a bath to test a temperature and drew in one last, long sigh. "Well, see, it started after my exam when Marius got a ring from Enjolras … "

She reiterated everything that had happened since then, from what Éponine had told her to her own theories and ponderings. Her father listened without interrupting once, though his eyebrows raised several times. When Cosette finished, Papa was silent for a long minute afterwards. "I told you it was bizarre," said Cosette with an apologetic shrug. "So yeah. Now Marius and me'll probably be spending half the summer puzzling about this, 'til things work themselves out."

Papa laced his fingers together. "Well then," he said with finality. He released a sigh that rose into a dry little chuckle of bewilderment. "Blimey."

Cosette nodded. "Yeah. I know." She shook her head. "See, the weirdest thing isn't even Éponine's situation. She probably did just hit her head hard or whatever. But how did she _know_ us, our names and everything? How did she know who we all were?"

Her response was a tiny smile. "I guess we'll have to see."

…

"And tell me again what it is you call them?" Éponine said, holding the oversized apparent sleep-clothes from her at arm's length. She had just been presented with these articles of clothing to wear during the night; they belonged to Enjolras and would be too large on her, but he said they would have to do for now. It wasn't the size of the clothes that struck Éponine, though: she was well accustomed to wearing ill-fitting clothing and it wasn't as though the trousers and top she wore now fit her perfectly. But these were made of an odd fabric, and they were baggy too. They looked as if they would be a little loose even on Enjolras.

Enjolras gave her a smile, seeming bemused. "Pyjamas," he said. "Didn't you call them that yet in 1832?" As Éponine shook her head, he shrugged. "Well, they're the same thing. Go on; put them on. They're pretty comfortable. I know they're a tick big on you, but they _are_ my smallest pair."

"Pair? But there's only one of them. Why ever would I wear two anyhow?"

"Top and bottom. Together, they make a pair."

"Oh." Éponine squinted at the so-called _pyjamas_, then shrugged. "All right, then; if it is what you ask of me, I shall wear them. They shall do nicely, and if I am to be honest, it has been a terribly long time since I wore sleep-clothes of any kind. This shall make for a pleasant change." She finally gathered the pyjamas in her arms. "The fabric is very soft," she added sheepishly. "I expect them to be most comfortable. Thank you for allowing me to borrow them. Though I must say, sir, I'm not terribly tired. Not as much as I was before, anyhow. Resting this afternoon served me well."

The grin on Enjolras' face spread before he could stop it. Despite everything, Éponine was starting to grow on him: not something the normally much more guarded Enjolras thought very often. But Éponine was undeniably sweet; he could tell there wasn't a bad bone in her. He felt sorry for her, too. And, he added to himself a bit guiltily, it was rather … adorable, seeing her marvel over every second thing. The young student crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell you what," he offered. "I'm not all that tired either, so how about you change and I'll put the kettle on? We can chat a bit, if you want."

Éponine smiled at him weakly. "That would be most lovely, if you mean to make tea, that is."

"I do."

She disappeared into Stephen's room then to change, now transformed into her temporary dwelling-place. Enjolras headed for the kitchen. He dug through the cupboards. He felt admittedly guilty that he didn't make tea the proper way: with teabags rather than leaves. The problem was that he simply never had the time to make real English tea. He was hardly ever at home anyway, running around between his mates' flats, the university, and the Musain, the pub that had, in recent years, become his most frequented hangout. But, he reasoned, as he filled the kettle with water, Éponine likely didn't know what teabags were anyway. (Not that he knew when teabags were invented, but Enjolras suspected as much). He would just have to explain them to her. Of all things she'd "discovered" today, teabags were probably a much more simple wonder.

Éponine appeared some minutes later, clad in Enjolras' pyjamas. They dwarfed her, the cotton and polyester fabric hanging limp around her narrow frame. But she didn't seem to care how large they were, or that the cuffs of the pants dragged behind her like the train of a wedding dress. She entered the kitchen wordlessly, and lowered herself onto a stool by the window. Enjolras had just finished pouring the tea; he slid her a mug across the counter, which she took gratefully. She glanced up at him with a small smile. "Mmm. Thank you." She raised the mug to her lips, blew gently on the surface of the tea. Sipped. "Thank you, sir," she repeated. "It's very good."

Enjolras leaned against the counter and took a sip himself. "You can have more milk or sugar," he offered. "If you want."

"No, no, it's quite fine the way it is now … " Éponine took another sip, then set down the mug and leaned forward on the counter, resting her chin in her hand. "So, then, Enjolras. You say this is London 2015. Oh, tell me about this world! Tell me of all your friends; I want to know if they are much the same to the ones I knew a little."

He looked at her, bemused. "About this _world_? I don't know where to start. It's — pretty different to your world, Éponine. That is, what you _think_ is your world," he couldn't help but adding. "But, ah, I dunno. It's obviously much more advanced, technology-wise. My God, there are all kinds of things. Most of 'em have to do with electricity. I, er, don't think I can really explain what that is if you don't know. You'd need a scientist for that, and I'm not one." He looked down at the tea in his hands and the teaspoon held awkwardly between his fingers like a cigarette. His own reflection stared back at him, distorted.

Bloody hell, he was rubbish at this. "Anyway," he ambled on. "Politically it's changed a lot too. There aren't really Kings and Queens anymore; France isn't a monarchy and neither is England, for that matter. Well, we _do_ have a Queen but she doesn't do much. From a political standpoint, I mean. She doesn't have much power. The power goes to the Prime Minister, who gets voted in by the people. It's called a democracy."

She gazed at him in wonderment. "The ruling powers get _voted in_ by the people?" she repeated. "Do you mean to say that the people of your world … do you mean to say, then, that they have power?" A tiny laugh escaped her and for a moment Enjolras thought she might clap her hands together in delight. "But that is fantastic! That is … oh, I hardly dare believe it! Why, that is what you and your friends were _fighting_ for, as I know it. This world is the one you were all willing to give your lives for! And all those wild, radical, half-mad dreams and hopes of yours … they come true. That world comes to pass." She shook her head. "I must say, I never would have thought it to be so. Life was so wretched for the poor that most of us hardly dared put faith even in the very idea of such a world. One of freedom, I take it?" Without waiting for a response, she ambled on, shaking her head again. "Oh, Enjolras. You and your friends … you all got to live in the world you dreamed of, and you shall never know it."

Enjolras cleared his throat meaningfully; her thoughtful honesty was beginning to make him uncomfortable. And it was starting to confuse him, too. So he chose instead to answer Éponine's question, rhetorical thought it had probably been. "Yeah," he said loudly, nodding. "I guess you could say it's a free world. Some of it is, anyway. For the most part."

"You don't seem to think it quite so magnificent," she accused. "For the rulers to be _selected_ by the _free _people, after all!"

He gave her a dry smile. "Yup. Well. That's a democracy, all right. But it's not all that great, see. Cos soon as you put it down to a vote, you have to remember that about eighty-five per cent of the people in the world are idiots."

"Be kind, sir," Éponine admonished, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. She failed at this and released it, a hearty laugh at his frankness. "But you are right, of course. Has _that_ not changed in two centuries?"

He smirked. "What made you think it would?"


	5. Chapter 5

.

**New World for the Winning**

**(Slightly late) author's note**: It's that time of year again. Happy (belated) Barricade Day, mates! *waves red flag in air wildly*

* * *

Chapter Five

…

After the tea had gone cold and finally been drained from each of their mugs, Enjolras spared a glance at the digital clock on the microwave. It was late — or early, depending on how you chose to think about it. 1:23 in the morning. He turned his gaze back to Éponine just in time to catch her releasing a mighty yawn.

She caught his eye and smiled sheepishly. "I don't know how it is I can be so tired," she said, "when I slept so much this afternoon. I suppose — if it's all right with you, of course, that is — I shall rest myself a bit. Not for terribly long, just an hour or two. The bed you offered me was most comfortable," she added. "Oh, I don't believe I recall ever having slept on such a soft mattress; in Paris my sister and I shared a rough canvas one that was always stiff as a board." Éponine worried the fabric of her oversized pyjamas between her hands.

Enjolras glanced at the clock again. 1:24. "Well, it _is_ late," he stated reasonably. Raking a hand through his curls, he added, more to himself than to Éponine, "and maybe you'll remember a thing or two when you wake up in the morning, and this bleedin' mess will start to clear itself up a little." A likely story. Somehow Enjolras doubted things would clear themselves up just like that, but there was always hope.

Éponine chewed at her lower lip, but she nodded at Enjolras. "Then goodnight to you, sir," she said with a polite little inclination of her head. "And — well, I must thank you again. You have been too good to me." Then, abandoning her empty mug, she left the kitchen and headed for Stephen's old bedroom.

Enjolras watched her go, then pushed himself off from where he'd been leaning against the counter. The dirty mugs he deposited in the sink. It was actually somewhat jarring to see the kitchen so neat. On most days, the counter was covered in grains of spilled rice he hadn't bothered to vacuum up; empty plastic containers from take-away meals; crumpled, used paper towels; and the sink tended to be piled high with plates and cups, unidentifiable bits of foodstuff congealed to their surfaces. He surveyed the room with a new air of approval. The kitchen's perpetual state of disarray had been the source of a number of Joly's lectures, but, Enjolras thought proudly, those times were behind him now.

It was quite late now, though. He'd wash the cups in the morning.

He left the kitchen himself, clicking off the lights in his wake. Opening the door to his own bedroom was somewhat jarring, as it was the only room he hadn't yet cleaned. He'd started to grow accustomed to his flat's brand-new state of quasi-orderliness. Stripping down to his pants and leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor, forming another one of many, Enjolras flopped onto his bed and lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. It was too hot to cover himself even with sheets tonight, so he stayed on top of his blankets instead.

As for tomorrow, he thought as his mind began to give way to the call of sleep, he'd just have to see what happened and go with it. It struck him that he should ring Combeferre come morning. Combeferre was the cleverest of their gang; if anyone had any clue of what to do next, it would be him. Yes, Combeferre could puzzle all this out …

That was the last thought Enjolras was aware of having before finally falling asleep. When he dreamt that night, it was of shouts and gunfire and a startlingly scarlet flag against an untainted blue sky.

…

Éponine jerked into wakefulness rather abruptly, her eyes snapping open and her chest heaving from a nightmare already forgotten. She lay for a number of seconds, her mind still foggy, and rolled over in bed, seeking her sister's warmth. Her arm stretched out and blearily patted the space next to her, but Azelma was nowhere to be found on either side of her. She must have woken already, Éponine reasoned sleepily. But then she was awake enough to register the foreign surface beneath her — a mattress, it would seem, but much larger than the canvas mat she shared with her sister. Not to mention far more comfortable.

She sat bolt upright, grabbing at the blankets as sleepiness gave way to instinctual panicked confusion. For a heartbeat she sat, blinking into the darkness of the room. And then she remembered yesterday's most curious events; all of them coming to her in a winding rush.

With a sigh Éponine flopped back down onto the bed. Well, it seemed she was still trapped here. Somehow. She'd not woken back at home in Paris with the realisation that it had all been a dream. No, this was the same spare room in Enjolras' apartment that had been given to her yesterday. A most comfortable one it was, too. She nuzzled back into the warm cocoon of the blankets. Though it was rather warm outside the shelter of the bed linens, she couldn't recall ever owning such soft blankets, not even when they'd been living in Montfermeil, and for now she wanted to bask in their comfort.

Her shock upon waking had snapped any tiredness out of her, though, and Éponine was now fully awake. She wondered what time it was. There was no clock in this room, though she'd seen one mounted on the wall of the sitting room. (A most curious design it had had to it, too, but it had been unmistakably a clock all the same). Judging by the darkness of the room, Éponine suspected it was still rather early. Not yet dawn. She imagined Enjolras would still be asleep, and had no desire to disturb him.

But she didn't want to lie about here in this bed doing nothing, either.

Overcome by sudden motivation, Éponine thrust the blankets aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She nearly tripped upon taking her first step; she'd forgotten that the so-called "pyjamas" Enjolras had lent her were rather too large on her. Minding her footing this time, Éponine left the bedroom, leaving the door ajar behind her, and wandered down the corridor into the sitting room.

A look out the large window facing the street proved it to indeed still be night; the sky was dark and mostly clouded over, though a few stars were visible. It was too dark to read the clock on the wall, but Éponine found herself wandering closer to the window, carefully manoeuvring across the sitting room for the darkness. Closer inspection revealed, to Éponine's impress, the large window to in fact be a set of double doors made of glass. They opened onto a small balcony.

Éponine jiggled the doorknob. It was different in structure and appearance to the doorknobs she was accustomed to seeing, but unlike most things in this strange new world, it was perfectly recognisable and didn't seem to have some strange, different way of operating. She pushed open the door to a relieving, light, fresh breeze, and she breathed it in deeply before stepping out onto the balcony.

The balcony was quite small and rather uncared for, covered in dirt and bird droppings. The metal railing surrounding it was rusting in several places, and the thin coat of black paint flaking. But Éponine didn't care. She leaned on her elbows against the railing and arched her head back to admire the view of the few stars visible.

Éponine didn't know terribly much about stars and constellations and all the Greek myths Marius had once told her many of them were associated with. As a child she'd never had the patience to study them, and as she entered adolescence and her family had moved to Paris' streets she'd not had the time. But she knew a constellation or two by sight, out of familiarity, if not by name.

From here, the night sky didn't look all that different to how she'd known it in Paris. The sight of it comforted Éponine, and she found herself swinging her legs over the top of the railing. She perched herself atop it, found her balance, then leaned forward where she sat it, elbows on her knees and chin in hand.

It was rather pleasant out here, she decided. The late hour meant that the city was asleep and quiet, and if she just looked at the stars and not her strange surroundings she could almost pretend she was back home, sitting on the windowsill and daydreaming of Marius, as she'd sometimes done when her parents were out on "business." The height somehow served as a comfort too. It was a child's logic, of course: climb up high and reach up and pluck the stars of your choosing out of the sky. Balancing on the railing of a second-storey balcony didn't bring her any closer to the numbered stars and staring at them didn't bring her any closer to home. Or him.

But no matter. The cool breeze was most refreshing; the silence a great comfort.

With most of her early panicked feelings faded, in the quiet, Éponine was able to finally sit about and ponder. Her mind wandered to all the logical places: she wondered, not without misery, how she'd gotten here; and _why_ Enjolras and the others didn't know who she was, and why they seemed a part of this world. Who else from her life had become a part of this world? Enjolras' words earlier suggested to Éponine that beside himself and Marius, the rest of his student friends — _les amis_, as they called themselves — were also somehow a part of this world. They claimed to have grown up in this London, and they all seemed rather familiar with each other.

But what of all the others who had been a part of her life? Her brother and sister and — well, while she didn't like the idea, she couldn't reject the thought — Montparnasse and her parents?

Éponine gave a huff of irritation. None of this made the least bit sense, and she still had Marius to worry for, to save. What had happened to everyone in Paris, apparently almost two hundred years in the past? The impossible idea that she might truly have somehow landed herself in the future was slowly moulding itself into puzzled acceptance. And if that was true, then perhaps there was no way back to her own time, no way to return and help Marius.

She decided that the blasted stars and fresh air were doing her no good after all. Carefully maintaining her balance, Éponine swung her legs back over the railing and dropped back down onto the balcony. She went back into Enjolras' sitting room, shutting the doors behind her. She considered slipping out and exploring this world a bit more, but decided against it. She might have been familiar with Paris' streets, but she didn't know her way around London even in her own time. The last thing Éponine wanted to do was get herself lost in this world. It had been pure chance that had driven Enjolras to seat himself on the same bench as her in that park, and the odds of him finding her again were considerably low. Were she to wander off, she would surely get lost, and Enjolras would almost certainly not be able to find her.

At a loss, then, for what to do, Éponine found herself idly walking the perimeter of the room, her hand brushing against the wall as she went. On her second round, Éponine's fingers brushed against something — a switch of some sort. She pressed it without meaning to, and to her bewilderment, the room was suddenly swelling with light. She raised a hand to shield her eyes and squinted hard against it. Her hand blindly groped for the switch again, and with some fumbling she managed to press on the switch again, and with a _click_ the light went out from the room again, just like that.

Now Éponine could stand in fascination. She could make out a small bulb of glass on the ceiling, assumedly the source of the light. Her hand wavered over the switch, and then she decidedly pressed down on it, raising her other hand to shield her eyes against the sudden brightness just in time. And again it worked. It was like a little flame had filled the bulb, but it lit the room better than any candles or oil-lamps Éponine had ever seen. She stood, blinking rapidly to allow her eyes to adjust to the light. Once they had, some moments later, she reached over and pressed down on the switch again. The flame was extinguished.

Why, now! But this was a marvel! A wonder! Certainly among the most interesting of things Éponine had seen yet in this strange world.

_Click, click, click_. It struck her that she must have seen this curious … mechanism, or whatever it was that lit that bulb in use before. When she'd been in the kitchen with Enjolras, the room had been very well-lit despite the late hour. The curiosity of such bright lighting had passed her notice, but now she thought about it, Enjolras must have used a similar mechanism to light the kitchen earlier.

_Click. Click, click._

Éponine giggled in wonderment despite herself. She pressed the switch a few more times until her childish thrill in the light began to ebb away. Stepping back, Éponine's gaze found the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. Folding her hands behind her back, she wandered over to it. It was still terribly early and she suspected that Enjolras would not awaken for many hours yet. She didn't think he would mind terribly if she picked up and read a bit from one of his books until he woke. After all, she didn't know what else to do.

She scanned the books but recognised none of them. Of course, she wouldn't have. So Éponine selected at random a fat hardback volume and took it to the sofa. It struck her that it had been several years since she'd ever read a book at all. There had been no time for reading in Paris, and even before that she'd never been one for books.

Once seated, Éponine allowed herself a glance at the book. _LAW _spelled out the letters on the cover page; this must be one of Enjolras' textbooks, then. The thought that he studied law still brought a smile to her face, and she wondered if the case was the same for Marius. The texture of the book was unusual — its binding was leathery but too smooth, and the pages were strikingly glossy. She weighed it in her hands — surprisingly light for how thick it was, though it was still somewhat heavy. She tucked her legs under her and brushed away unwanted strands of hair.

She read, though she understood less than half of what was written. Éponine had received enough of an education to read simple texts, stories and children's books and poetry. Most of the words and terminology used here were foreign to her, and not knowing a second thing about the context didn't help. The language struck Éponine as being rather informal, much like the language of Enjolras and his friends, and presumably like all those living in this strange world. But reading from the book gave her something to occupy her mind and time with, and she took comfort in stumbling her way through the puzzling passages.

She must have been reading for quite some time, and must have gotten herself rather enraptured with the text indeed, for the next time Éponine looked up it was morning.

…

An insistent buzzing woke Enjolras. Blearily he registered the noise as his mobile going off. With a groan, the 21-year-old sat up in bed, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face and groped for the phone where he always left it on the bedside cabinet. His fingers found it and pressed the _Accept Call_ button as he raised the mobile to his ear. "Hullo?" he managed around a yawn.

An enthusiastic voice seeming rather out of place for the early hour burst out of the speaker, and Enjolras, who could scarcely said to be even half-awake, flinched. "Oi, oi. So Marius called me last night, but I thought it was a tick late to call you … "

Enjolras rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Combeferre," he interrupted his friend, his mind too bleary yet to register what was being said, "what bloody time is it?" No need to explain the story to Combeferre, at least. Had he been more awake, he would have made a mental note to thank Marius for sparing him the effort.

"Eight-oh-five," Combeferre responded, with near robotic, rhythmic emphasis on each syllable. "Anyway. Listen. So Marius rang me, and he told me all about, well, what you said's gone on over there, yeah? This girl … Ponine, wasn't it?"

That was enough to snap him into (near) wakefulness. "Éponine. Er. Yeah. My God, Combeferre, please tell me you know her; please tell me she's some ex-girlfriend of yours and you told her, like, every last detail about your mates or something. If you would, that would be _so_ wonderful. Or if you have some complicated and logical reasoning or theory behind this bleeding mess … " Why hadn't he thought to contact him right away? Combeferre was indisputably the cleverest of their group, Science major and logician on the side. He had an unbecoming habit of peppering them with science facts and figures that Enjolras normally found tiresome. But Combeferre was both thoughtful and quick of mind; if any of them might have some semblance of an explanation for this Éponine situation, it would be him.

Combeferre gave a small, if not slightly rueful, chuckle. "No, sorry … no such luck. But, well, it's weird, innit? Mental, all of it."

Enjolras released a short laugh of his own. "You're telling me. But … you haven't got any ideas, no leads … ?"

"Nothing, but I'll probably be thinking about it most of today. I'll give you a ring if I think of anything." Most likely the gears in his mind were already spinning, weighing out the likelihood of the various theories it was churning out. "One question, though, Enjy." — and Enjolras bit back a comment against the irritating nickname — "It sounds like the girl probably hit her head, like Marius was saying, and proper hard too. Chances are there'll be other effects too, besides amnesia. Were you going to take her to a hospital?"

_A hospital_. Of course. Enjolras could have kicked himself. A hospital was the most logical place to take the girl. It should have been the first place to take her upon discovering just how confused she was. Amnesia, head trauma … maybe even other injuries, too. Why hadn't the idea occurred to him before? "Er," was all he could muster as he cursed his own stupidity.

On the other end of the line, Combeferre sighed. "Oh, hell. It never even crossed your mind did it. Blimey, Enjolras, how thick can you get?"

"I was stressed out," Enjolras muttered defensively, grateful his friend couldn't see his cheeks flaming red. "I would've thought of it eventually. Yeah. I'll do that."

"Probably her family's already called in, looking for her," said Combeferre in a superior tone. "You really ought to do that ASAP." Another sigh. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go. Call me later, okay? Keep me posted; bye." There followed a _click _as he hung up, and Enjolras, with a sigh of his own, tossed his mobile aside and flopped back onto the bed. Taking hold of the pillow, he pressed it over his face and groaned loudly into it, then forced himself into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Right then. Time to get on with the day.

Today would be a good day, Enjolras told himself as he searched for clean clothes — he didn't smell so badly that a shower was necessary until later. He was going to get Éponine to a hospital, and some experts there would figure out what was wrong with her and maybe they'd find her family, who, as Combeferre had said, were almost certainly worried about her by now. And then later, Combeferre would have come up with a rational explanation for why it was Éponine knew the lot of them, and all would be solved.

Right. Likely, that.

…

Éponine had been reading still when she'd taken notice of the muffled sounds of conversation emitting from Enjolras' chambers. A most curious thing, for as far as she knew there was nobody else living in his bedroom for him to be speaking to. But she'd continued on reading, and five minutes later, he came into the hall, his curls mussed and looking rather exhausted. She smiled at him, bobbing her head as she set down the book. "Good morning, Enjolras."

"Mornin'," he replied. "You been up a long time?"

She thought about it. "I believe so, yes. And," she added, a bit sheepishly, "I took to reading a book of yours to pass the time; one of your textbooks, I believe. I do hope you don't mind terribly."

"Not at all, not at all." Enjolras dropped onto the sofa next to her. He looked rather unsure of what to say, and he sat with hunched shoulders for a moment, twiddling his thumbs. Éponine waited for him to carry the conversation on further, for she was just as much at a loss of what to say as he. Finally and thankfully, he did, looking up at her. "Er, you hungry? I mean, we should probably have some breakfast, yeah? I haven't got anything here, but I know a place nearby to get a decent coffee and take-away breakfast."

She nodded slowly and smiled. "All right, yes. That sounds grand. I should think I would be most thankful, sir." Éponine looked down at her pyjamas. "But I believe I shall have to trouble you for borrowed clothes again. Or," she added hastily, "I could always wear the ones I had with me, too."

Enjolras shook his head. "No, no. I'll, ah, go and find you something to wear. Just give me a tick … " he moved to get up, but Éponine stopped him.

"Thank you," she said, rather meaning it.

Enjolras nodded, looking a bit awkward, then got to his feet and disappeared into his chambers. Éponine watched him go, then sighed and sat back against the sofa. Today, she told herself, things would start to make an ounce or two of sense.

They would.

She'd never wanted to believe anything quite so badly in all her life.


	6. Chapter 6

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Six

…

Taking a girl who believed she was from the 19th century out onto a London street at rush hour, Enjolras decided, was a lot like trying to contain an excitable child.

He hadn't the foggiest how Éponine usually behaved in her ordinary and supposed 19th century life, but it probably wasn't like this. She stopped every few strides to gaze at something in wonderment, or tug at Enjolras' sleeve and exclaim at the sight of the passing cars. "What do you mean, they're like carriages? I see no horses, nor indeed, even signs of horses in the vicinity! There are no piles of manure on the side of the road, nor do they stink in the slightest of the animals themselves … " Her brown eyes remained in a perpetually widened state, and her mouth was kept positioned in a little smile of fascination.

Enjolras answered all her questions as patiently and simply as he could, but sometimes he only seemed to confuse Éponine further. He'd never excelled in History at school and didn't know how advanced the technology of her time was. He knew electricity hadn't been invented by 1832, but that was more or less it. In fact, some of Éponine's chatter about the primitive tools of her own time managed to confuse Enjolras. For instance, just what _was_ an oil-lamp and how did it differ from a candle?

The café wasn't very far, a mere four blocks from Enjolras' flat, but Éponine's constant stopping and exclaiming made the journey there far longer than it would have been otherwise. Enjolras was relieved when they found themselves just outside the café's doors. It was a tiny place, independently run by a chatty old bloke and his business was aided by a seemingly endless supply of pretty young waitresses. By day it served as a moderately popular café, but it was in the evening that it morphed into an overcrowded, noisy pub, and in both its forms it was a place Enjolras, and therefore by extension, all his friends and their respective girlfriends, frequented.

It was here that Enjolras planned to tell Éponine his intentions on taking her to the nearest hospital after breakfast. Out on the street she had proved herself too easily distracted, and besides, it was better to have such a discussion when they were sitting down.

This morning it was quiet, the only customer a middle-aged man sitting at one of the two outdoor tables, sipping at a jumbo coffee. But just before stepping into the café, Éponine froze on the spot. Her mouth fell open, her brow knitted and she took several steps back. Slowly her arms crossed over her chest and she arched her head back to read the sign on the old-fashioned awning. She shook her head back and forth and took to whispering to herself. "But … no, no. It's impossible."

Enjolras stepped closer to her. "What's impossible, Éponine?" he asked, his concern slowly mounting.

She pointed to the sign. "The café. I never thought … well, I suppose I ought not be as surprised as this, given the circumstances, but … it just seems very odd to me that _it_ has become a part of this world too. The Musain."

…

The great irony of summer was that despite the fact she always looked forward to sleeping in during the school year, Cosette always wound up waking early with no desire to lounge about in bed for hours on end. She woke up early that first day of summer holidays, and rolled out of bed not fifteen minutes after waking. At 8.30. This was more or less unheard of.

Her father was an early riser, and before long the pair of them were seated at the kitchen table with a hasty breakfast of buttered crumpets and orange juice. Papa had to work away from home again today, and indeed, would have to over the next couple of days.

"I reckon I'll be home earlier than I was yesterday." Papa took a sip from his orange juice, regarding his adopted daughter with interest. "So, any plans for today?"

Cosette would have thought the answer to that question was obvious. She was bursting to the seam with plans, and they had to do with Éponine. And Marius, of course. Already she had sent Marius a text message asking him to come over in a couple of hours. "Well, yeah — Marius and I are going to do some research on that rebellion that's not the French Revolution Éponine mentioned. The expansive, ever-terrifying and informative world of the Internet lies at my fingertips." She shrugged. "It's a start, isn't it, Papa?"

He nodded in approval. "Yes … it's a start. Good thinking." His lips pressed together then in a tight line. "Marius is coming over, you said?"

"I already invited him," she said, shoulders slumping. It wasn't so much that her father and boyfriend had a rivalry, but their encounters could charitably be called awkward and realistically be called gauche. Not that her father would ever deny her a meeting with Marius, but she hated seeing the two of them so uncomfortable around eachother.

"You can see him all you like, Cosette. He's your boyfriend, isn't he? And he's half-all right, that kid. Besides, I'll probably be gone by the time he arrives anyway."

…

It proved difficult for Éponine to do little more than stand in the middle of the sidewalk and goggle at the café. Her first thought was that she had been expecting the situation to be get any stranger, but then she realised this unlikely sighting _wasn't_ any stranger than her situation itself; it just made the puzzle one piece bigger.

But perhaps, Éponine told herself, it was just a coincidence. It wasn't impossible that no other pubs should ever take on the name Musain, though it was curious that a café in England should take a French name. But this Musain looked entirely different to the dirty yet popular old pub in the Place San Michel in Paris.

The Musain in Paris had boasted a frayed awning that might have once been white or ivory had it not been so dirty, with fading block letters spelling out _The Café Musain_ across it. It had been a large place, taking up a good portion of the property facing the square, with a dirty front window marred here and there by spiderwebbing cracks. And how noisy it had been, too! Its front door had nearly always been open, and the side door facing the alleyway as well, so that sounds of chatter and laughter and drunken singing had poured out into the street. A few empty barrels had always sat out by the front door on which small, filthy children or bent old beggars would perch, palms outstretched and eyes hollow.

This café was quite different. It had an awning, but it was clean and looked to be moderately new, and was clearly coloured with alternating red, blue, and white stripes. It was considerably smaller and took up much less space on the block, and its small front window was clean and unbroken. This Musain boasted a couple of small, round outdoor tables for two; inside, a few more similar tables were visible through the window. It wasn't very crowded, either: the only customer was a middle-aged man seated at one of the two outdoor tables.

A coincidence, Éponine told herself. And yet …

"What's impossible, Éponine?" Enjolras broke her from her reverie as he stepped closer to her, concern mingled with curiosity plain across his features.

She pointed and explained. "The café. I never thought … well, I suppose I ought not be as surprised as this, given the circumstances, but … it just seems very odd to me that _it_ has become a part of this world too. The Musain." She hesitated. "It may, of course, be but mere coincidence, but I have been exposed to far too many _coincidences_ between my world and this one since my arrival. One must wonder, you see." She shook her head. Her thoughts were beginning to go in circles, as they were wont to do when she was confused. Or afraid.

Éponine chewed her lip at the sight of Enjolras' blank expression. Impatience began to boil inside her despite herself. "Allow me to explain, sir. In Paris — that is to say, strange as these words still feel on my tongue — in my time, and in my world, there was a Café Musain also, though it was more of a pub than it was a charming café, especially at night. It faced out onto the Place San Michel, a square in the heart of the city's ugliest slums. And it was a most unusual place for it was frequented both by the local poor and the very rich. I myself went there often. When I had money at all I would sometimes buy myself bread with cheese, or the good kind of soup; and even when I had no money the barkeep and barmaids were always willing to give the poor like me a glass of water without charge. Good people ran that place, sir. And _you_ and your friends went there all the time, too. Nearly every night. The barkeep even knew you and your friends were planning something secret, that being your uprising, of course. There was a room upstairs, a storage room for wine that was seldom in use, and he allowed you all to hold your meetings there, confer in secret. And now here it is, in your world, though it looks very different. It's quiet and much nicer, at least in its appearance. I cannot speak for those who run it, nor its food and drink." She offered him a sheepish smile. "I believe I am educating you in History, sir."

Enjolras held up a finger. "Hold on a tick — the Musain was a pub in … your world, too?" She nodded. "And my mates and I met up there in a storage room?" She hesitated, then nodded again, and Enjolras released a whooshing breath. "Brilliant. More coincidences, more connections. Just what we blinkin' need." He looked at Éponine pointedly, but all she could do was stare back at him, unsure of his implications, and he elaborated: "It's just weird, is all. See, my mates and I, we meet up here at the Musain a few times a week. In an old disused back room." He rubbed at his temples. "So, like I said. More connections. Anyway, c'mon inside. Let's get some breakfast, yeah?"

She studied him, then nodded, and followed him into the café. He held the door open for her like a gentlemen and she flushed, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of such formalities.

Inside, this world's Musain was just as different as it had been outside. It was clean, very clean, and Éponine wondered how the barkeep and his workers managed to maintain such cleanliness. It didn't even reek of alcohol in the slightest. The floors were made of wood panelling and the walls were painted a similar colour. More of the small, circular tables filled the small space, all the way up to a high wooden bar counter with stools of a peculiar design. Behind the bar counter, attached, seemingly, to the wall was a wide, flat and black panel-like device, and the walls were lined with shelves containing bottles of drink of all varieties. A large slate was positioned just near the bar counter, scrawled with the day's "specials." The entire place was cheerily light, both from the sun outside and from several of those same egg-shaped glass bulbs she had seen in Enjolras' flat, which let off a warm sort of orange-white glow.

Enjolras led Éponine to one of the tables, and she sank down into a chair, he taking the seat opposite her. She arched her head back to take the place in. "It's very nice here," she supplied so as to fill the silence that followed. "Clean. Ever so different to the Musain in Paris." She wondered what hours the poor souls who must clean this place near to spotless every night worked, after the crowds cleared out in the early morning.

He nodded absently and a girl of perhaps twenty with dark hair tied back in a bun appeared at their table like a phantom. Her clothes were tight-fitting and revealed an alarming amount of skin and cleavage. Of course, she was a barmaid. She appraised them both, looking bored. "Hullo, may I take your orders?" She sounded bored, too, unlike the flirtatious barmaids of Éponine's world. "The usual, I'm guessin', Enjolras? Who's your lady friend?" A grin lit her face, a teasing pink tongue slipping between her teeth. "I thought you didn't fancy girls."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up. I don't have the _time_ to fancy_ anybody_. This is Éponine; she's a … friend. And yeah, the usual." He turned his attention from the girl to Éponine. "What'll _you_ have?"

When Éponine stared at him blankly, the girl piped up, "Most people order coffee in the mornings. Or tea. And, you know, some kind of breakfast item."

Coffee? Éponine had never had it before. It had been somewhat expensive in her world and even when living in Montfermeil her family had never been able to afford it. "Isn't much point in wasting perfectly good money on those little beans when tea does just as well to warm a man up," her father had always said. She thought about it a moment, but in the end, the choice was obvious. "I shall have a coffee," she said decidedly, then glanced anxiously at Enjolras, remembering that it was _his_ money she was spending, and she had none to pay him back. "That is … if it isn't too expensive."

"Coffee's the same as tea," the girl deadpanned. "One quid."

"Have the coffee, Éponine," Enjolras said. "One quid's not expensive." And Éponine was grateful for the explanation. _Quid_ must be the word for British currency. Of course, they wouldn't use _sous_ and _Francs_ and _centimes_ here in London. "And to eat … " he glanced at the barmaid. "Haven't you got menus in this place?"

"I thought you'd have it memorised by now," the girl shot back. "Didn't think you'd need one. But, for your girl … You want pastries or deli type food or what?"

"Ah … pastries, if you please." She didn't know what _deli type food_ was and had no desire to cause a scene by expressing her lack of knowledge.

The girl looked at her with a cocked eyebrow. Éponine waited, expecting her to run and fetch a menu card, but instead the barmaid decided to recite its contents. "There's scones, crumpets, biscuits, doughnuts, croissants — "

"A croissant would be lovely," Éponine interjected. "Thank you, miss. I shall have a coffee and a croissant, then." The barmaid was still looking at her oddly, with her left eyebrow raised, but then the girl shrugged.

"Your call, love." She turned on her heel, making for the bar counter, behind which there was a door Éponine hadn't noticed before but presumed led to the kitchens. "And Enjolras, if she really isn't yours then don't forget I'm still available!" she called, tossing the comment over her shoulder without slowing her pace. Then she disappeared through the door.

Éponine stared after the girl with fascination; she had quickly shed her bored façade. Never before had she seen a barmaid behaving quite so forward with gentlemen (or working men) customers, not even the most coquettish of them. "Who was she?" she asked Enjolras curiously, turning her focus back to him. "Begging your pardon, sir, but you seemed most familiar with her."

Enjolras snorted a laugh. "I wouldn't say 'familiar.' At least, not in the way I reckon you're thinking. I'm just a regular, so all the waitresses here know me and my mates fairly well. That was Lily, anyway." Éponine glanced in the way of the door again, but Enjolras cleared his throat and she glanced back at him. "_Any_way. Listen, Éponine. I was talking to Combeferre this morning — "

"Oh, Combe_ferre_!" she interrupted, nodding. So he was a friend of Enjolras' in this world too. "Yes, I _thought_ I heard you speaking with someone this morning, but I knew not to whom, for I was not aware of anyone else being in the apartment, and I sitting by the door; I saw no one come in. You were speaking to Combeferre in your chambers."

Something of a bemused grin lit his features. "You know 'Ferre too? Yeah, I was speaking to him in my 'chambers.'" Éponine did not miss the teasing lilt he put in the last word.

"I do — however were you speaking to him, then? He must have gotten in. Is there another entrance?"

Enjolras looked as though he didn't want to answer. "No … " he said slowly. "I mean — well, yeah, I mean no." Éponine stared, but allowed him to continue. "There's no other entrance. Let's just say it's complicated; I'll explain later." The young man sighed, and Éponine reluctantly nodded. She was about to ask what it was Combeferre had said (did he, by any glorious, fleeting, impossible chance remember her?) when the waitress, Lily, arrived, bearing two cups of coffee, which she set down in front of her two customers. She tapped a small bowl Éponine hadn't taken much notice of that sat in the centre of the table with one finger, waggled her eyebrows at Enjolras, and left for the kitchen again.

Enjolras slid the small bowl across the table towards her. "Milk, cream, sugar," he deadpanned, and held out a tiny paper envelope and a tiny white cup. Éponine held out an expectant palm and he dropped both items into it, allowing her to inspect them. The little cup interested her, it was small as a thimble and a glossy paper cap at its top sealed its contents. Milk, she assumed. She recognised the material it was made of to be plastic; a fibre Enjolras had shown her. She looked up at him questioningly. She liked the sounds of milk in her coffee, for she had heard it was very bitter without it — and sugar! She could scarcely remember the last time she'd had something sweet. Sometimes her mother had put a kettle to boil and served weak tea, when it could be afforded, but they'd had no sugar to stir into it.

He showed her how to tear open the paper envelope containing sugar at her request, and how to peel back the seal of the tiny milk packet. Stirred both in for her. Éponine cupped her hands around the coffee cup. "Do you really purchase your milk like this in your world?" she couldn't help but ask. She couldn't remember ever having been this curious, but now she was brimming with inquisitiveness. It was a strange feeling. A nice one. And understanding the fantastical mechanisms of this world, its small and insignificant details, lessened her fear of it. "In such small containers? It seems most impractical to me."

"We don't, normally. We buy milk in cartons or bottles, I'm guessing not all that different to how you'd — _remember_ getting it." His tone was pleasant, but his words were carefully measured.

She stared down at her drink. The coffee was hot enough that steam rose from its milky brown surface, translucent and uncertain.

"But anyway," Enjolras was saying, "Combeferre." She looked up and nodded, prompting him to go on. A sigh and he did so. "I was talking with him, and you know, he says we should probably take you to a hospital."

Éponine had been looking down into her coffee, listening without reaction, but at his last word her head snapped up. Her muscles tensed. "I don't understand you, sir."

"Like, a hospital. The medical kind." His tone wavered. "You know. You must've had those in 1832. You must've hit your head hard, and it'd be best if we had a doctor check you over. For signs of concussion and head trauma and maybe other injuries."

Despite his former kindness to her, Éponine felt herself growing angry. Angry and alarmed; a lethal mix. When she answered him, she was sure to lace her words with as much steel as she could muster. "I shall not be taken to a hospital. I shan't let you. I am fine and unharmed."

"But — "

"No. People _die_ in hospitals."

"Maybe — "

"The doctors in hospitals take your money, and people die. I am uninjured and will not allow you to take me to a hospital of any kind." _Or the madhouse_. She interrupted Enjolras again, this time before a sound could leave his mouth. "No." He wilted a little at her tone, and she sat back, pleased with herself.

There was a long pause before Enjolras finally deemed it safe to speak. "Éponine, listen. If you're really that … insistent, then okay. Okay, I won't take you to any hospitals against your will. There are laws against that. But I do want you to listen to me, please." He hesitated. "Medically speaking, this world has advanced a whole lot since your time. I get the feeling people die way less in hospitals than they did two centuries ago. The doctors of today know what they're doing." A beat. "Mostly, anyway. But … if you're really that insistent, then okay. Okay, fine. I won't take you. But Combeferre, he's a medical student. Would it be all right with you if he, er, checked you over sometime? At least for signs of injury to your head?"

She appraised him coolly. "Fine," Éponine said eventually, words corseted. "But I refuse to be taken to any hospitals."

"Have it your way. Your family might be worried about you, though."

Éponine couldn't hold back her snort at that. The image of her parents concerned for her well-being — or the well-being of her sister — was laughable. "If my family was searching for me," she said pointedly, "then I would not want them to find me. It is only my sister and my brother with whom I am concerned, or would care to see again."

He looked deflated, and relieved when Lily materialised yet again at their table, this time bearing two plates. On one was a round bun with a hole in its middle, cut in half and oozing cheese around the edges; on the other, a golden-brown, vaguely crescent-shaped item that Éponine realised, aghast, was meant to be a croissant. Once Lily left again, Éponine poked at it gingerly.

"No good?" asked Enjolras around a full mouth.

"It's not a croissant," Éponine retorted stubbornly, "whatever it is. I've not tried it yet, and I'm not sure I want to." But she was hungry again. She'd eaten quite a bit last night, more than she was used to eating, and though she'd not yet relieved herself, her stomach was again beginning to pang in the familiar way of hollowness. Perhaps … she tore off a large chunk of the "croissant" and shoved it into her mouth.

She chewed, tasted, paused.

Then she had to stop herself from spitting it back out. She forced the chewed mass of food down her throat, suppressing a gag as she did so, and slid the abomination of a baked good across the table towards Enjolras. Normally Éponine would never waste food; she had eaten stale bread many a time in Paris, but she was too shocked by this so-called "croissant" and her unusual situation muddled her thoughts, shifting her usual morals into perspective.

This was certainly not the Musain she knew.

"It's foul," she managed at Enjolras' questioning look. "The dough is thick and not flaky; and there's not nearly enough butter. It has been years since I've had a fine croissant, but I have not forgotten their taste. Forgive me, sir, but I cannot … I can only hope the coffee is any better."

Éponine narrowed her eyes at Enjolras, who seemed to be struggling to hold back a smirk, and cautiously took the coffee cup by the handle and took the smallest of sips. She was surprised. The drink nearly singed her tongue for its heat, but it was good, very good. She blew once on its surface and drank more.

Enjolras, for his part, raised his eyebrows at her and took another bite of his oddly-shaped sandwich. Éponine hoped for his sake it was better than her "croissant." But next he surprised her by filling the silence with a proposition: "So, Éponine. I had a meeting booked for tonight. Are you up to meeting some of the rest of us boys?"

…

_Pop by in 2h_. That was what Cosette's text message to Marius had read. She even double-checked to make sure. But just as her father was stepping out the door to their third-storey flat, barely forty-five minutes after the message had been sent, footsteps sounded, coming up the stairs at the rapid pace of one sprinting up the steps two at a time. And a moment later, Marius appeared at the third-floor landing, panting for breath slightly. Papa stiffened.

Spying Cosette leaning in the doorway Marius offered her one of his bright little grins over her Papa's shoulder. Normally that smile was enough to give her cause to swoon, or at least kiss his cheek, but today she was just annoyed.

"Two. Hours," she said pointedly, her arms slowly crossing over her chest. "Or were you planning on lounging about on the doorstep for an hour?"

He blinked at her in confusion, then turned back to Cosette's father. "Hullo, sir. Nice to see you." His words and tone were friendly enough, but Papa didn't relax much.

"Nice to see you, too, Marius," he said politely, curtly. "I hear you and my daughter have big plans for the summer." Then, as if realising just how that comment could be interpreted, and after both Marius and Cosette's ears tinged pink, he cleared his throat meaningfully. "That is, you have a mystery to solve."

"Oh, Cosette told you about Éponine."

Cosette raised an eyebrow. "Ye-es, of course I did. I could hardly've kept that sort of information in, now, couldn't I?" Silence followed, laced with tension that stretched between them all like an elastic band pulled taut and on the verge of snapping. A moment later, she reached over and grabbed Marius' hand, practically hauling him past the threshold with her. "Oh, c'mon in, you. And … best hurry, Papa, or you'll be late."

Under normal circumstances, her father would have raised his eyebrows at such a comment — _in a rush to get rid of your old man, eh, Pet?_ — but today he seemed relieved. Nodding in agreement, he said goodbye and made for the lift. Cosette waited a moment, then yanked the door shut and let out a little whoosh of breath before readjusting her grip on Marius' (sweaty) hand and tugging him into her bedroom. "Come on, we have work to do!"

She released him onto her bed and collapsed herself into her desk chair, fired up her laptop. Then, while waiting for it to wake up, she turned on the swivel chair to face her boyfriend, lacing her fingers together. "So. I was thinking. Remember that revolution Éponine was talking about? We should start by doing research on that; find out a thing or two about it."

Marius propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her sceptically. "But she doesn't _really_ come from the 19th century. She just thinks she did. It's not like she, I dunno, fell through time or whatever."

She turned back to the laptop, opening up an Internet tab, and Marius scooted over on the bed, taking a seat by the headboard so he could see the screen. "Even if that's the case," Cosette replied thoughtfully, as if she had seriously considered the possibility that Éponine had fallen through time, "it still doesn't hurt to do some research on the time she _thinks_ she comes from." Clicking to Google, she typed into the search bar, _French revolution 1832_.

She scrolled through two pages of hits, all of which pointed her to the well-known French Revolution of the 18th century and Napoleon's Wikipedia page, plus a furniture store in France that was selling an antique dining room table for €1832. None of it useful.

There was an article about a July Revolution that looked promising, but it turned out to be about a Parisian uprising in 1830, not 1832. While Cosette scrolled and typed and tried various search strings, Marius fanned himself with a disposable menu for a take-away Chinese restaurant he found on his girlfriend's desk. "Blimey, it's hot," he said at one point mournfully.

"Ice lollies in the freezer," Cosette replied automatically. "Grab one for me, too, won't you?"

Marius got up to do her bidding, and Cosette turned her attention back to the laptop. A thought suddenly occurred to her, something that might offer her promising information. She did a search for a timeline of French monarchs, and a Wikipedia list told her that the King of France in 1832 was King Louis-Philippe. Motivated, she typed into Google's blank and prompting search bar, _French uprising + paris + 1832 + king louis-philippe_.

And there it was.

Two hits from the top. Not a Wikipedia entry, but an article from some historian's website. "Paris 1832: The June Rebellion." Excitedly she clicked on it, and sat back, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the page to load.

Marius appeared at her side just then, an ice lolly in each hand. She beckoned him over frantically. "What took you so long, anyway?"

"I was trying to find an orange-flavoured one," he replied defensively, waving the ice lolly in question in the air while passing her one of her flavour of preference, grape.

All she did was roll her eyes. "I think I found something." The page had loaded, and Cosette leaned forward and began to read aloud, her words hushed and excited.

"_PARIS 1832: THE JUNE REBELLION._

"_The June Rebellion was a failed anti-monarchist insurrection of the Parisian republicans, led and attended mostly by young students, between June 5-6 1832. It originated with an attempt to reverse the establishment in 1830 of the July Monarchy of Louis-Philippe. The public were angered by the king's oppression and maltreatment of the working class.  
_"_The death of General Jean Lamarque, the only member of Parliament who showed any sympathy for the poor, served as a spark for the young revolutionaries to build their barricades in the early morning of June 5, at the start of Lamarque's funeral. They were attacked shortly thereafter by the French military. Several battles broke out over the span of the two days. At the dawn of the third day, June 7, the last remaining students were attacked. There were no survivors_."

Cosette faltered. Why hadn't she learned about this in her World History class this year? The next paragraph of text gave her the answer to her question.

"_Curiously, the June Rebellion, despite being a bloody and significant part of French history, is a nearly forgotten chapter. For reasons unknown today, there were no official records of this event, almost as though officials did not want it to be remembered. Not even media coverage has been recovered, suggesting that perhaps a majority of the public was oblivious to the battles and lives lost. The only evidence we have today of this revolution taking place is eyewitness accounts of locals living in apartments or working in shops near where the barricades were built who were not actually involved in the fighting_."

The article ended there, and Cosette stared blankly at the screen, stricken. She'd been holding her ice lolly the whole time without stripping it of its cheerfully-coloured plastic wrapping. It was beginning to melt in her hand.


	7. Chapter 7

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Seven

…

By the time they were finished their breakfasts, — Éponine, her hunger winning out over feelings of repulsion, had eaten the croissant after all, especially as she later felt rather guilty over her ill manners — the sky had cracked open and it had begun to rain again, quite relentlessly. It pattered noisily against the front window, bounced off the awning and sent the man who'd been peacefully enjoying his breakfast running for cover inside.

Neither of them wanted to wait the rain out inside the Musain. Although neither of them had umbrellas, Enjolras' flat wasn't very far away and the serving girl, Lily, kept casting them annoyed looks as though willing them to leave the café now that they were finished their meals, and now that a few more customers were starting to filter in. She refilled their coffees from a large and specially designed coffee pot, much to Éponine's surprise and gratefulness, but she also passed Enjolras a check to emphasise her desire to get them out.

Enjolras paid, and without any other way to repay him, Éponine was left to thank him profusely; they both finished their coffees and stepped outside to brave the rainfall. The rain had turned the London street, a pleasant landscape before, into a running oil painting of dreary greys. The citizens bustled up and down the street, sheltering themselves with the broad cover of umbrellas and those without ran along the sidewalk, palms upturned to the rain as if questioning it, ducking at every opportunity beneath the awning of shops.

Éponine stepped out into the rain and tipped her head back, welcoming it. Enjolras hesitated underneath the shelter of the Musain's awning before joining her somewhat doubtfully, tugging the back of his shirt up and over his head a little. "Come on," he said shortly, nodding his head in the general direction of his home and starting to walk. Éponine nodded, falling into step next to him. A few strides later, he glanced sidelong at her. "You like the rain?"

She shrugged, then nodded. "I don't mind it so much. You know," she added, "it was raining when I died — when I _remember_ dying, that is. I didn't, of course … "

Enjolras, for his part, didn't know what to say. It only confused him further when Éponine talked of her past life as if she'd actually experienced it. And with such confidence, too. He wondered how much of what she said was actual memory modified to suit the 19th century and how much of it was pure muddled thought. He studied her a moment. "Oh," he finally said eloquently.

She seemed unfazed by this, and kept talking as they went. "But you know, that's very odd, now I think of it," she mused. "You see, sir, it was raining when I — er, was shot, and we were all of us soaking wet, even in the middle of the battle. We were all wet, but it's _odd_ because I was absolutely dry when I awoke in that alleyway." She had reached a large puddle in her path on the sidewalk, and now, arms extended, she hopped over it contentedly. "Yes, I was dry as if I hadn't been out in the rain a moment, but the blood on my chemise was still damp as it was when I was first shot." He could practically see the gears turning in her head; she was bright, this girl, she was piecing together clues but it seemed she had no idea what to do with them, and frankly, Enjolras didn't either.

"Well," he finally said guardedly, "that's just weird, too, Éponine. Strange."

She nodded vigorously. "I do wonder," she said thoughtfully, "whatever your friends shall think. If I was to guess I would say that all of them are a part of this world, too, just as you are. But I really must _wonder_, what if one of them remembers? Or if not remember completely, then at least have some faint trace of a life once lived … some whiff or flash of a memory. Of Paris, or even of me." She said these last words wistfully.

They started to cross the street, and Enjolras, who'd been looking at Éponine as she spoke and not minding his footing, stepped right into a puddle. The rain had filled up a pothole, making the puddle fairly deep, and he was soaked almost to the ankle. He could feel the water going right through his shoe; his sock was completely drenched inside of it. Enjolras lifted his dripping right foot, and didn't miss Éponine's poorly-suppressed smirk at his grimace. He set it down on the pavement, and even above the perpetual _pitter-patter_ of the rain, there was an audible _squelch_. "Oh, ugh," he muttered.

Éponine snorted and really giggled at that, and he spun on her, pointing a finger at her chest. "Shut up, you," he teased. He took a step. _Squelch_. "Ah, brill."

"I've said nothing," she replied, and then burst into a fresh wave of laughter. "Won't you come, sir?" He nodded, and they kept walking mostly in silence but for the constant squelching noise his shoe now made with every step.

…

In the confines of Enjolras' apartment, the rest of the day stretched on for Éponine. Mostly she learned things. He had let her wander about his flat; had even invited her to explore his chambers if she so desired, but the thought of entering a man's bedroom like that had been enough to make her blush with discomfort, so that door remained shut.

She wondered if Enjolras had a great many things to attend to. It didn't seem like he was planning a revolution here in London at all, and as far as Éponine knew, planning his uprising had been all the Enjolras of her world had done with his time. But surely he had other things to do? She hated that she was taking up all his time, but Enjolras was nothing but good and kind to her. He let her wander his apartment and ask all the questions she wanted, most of which were about the items and devices she came across, and each of them he answered with varying degrees of helpfulness.

She learned a little more about the thing called _electricity_. Apparently nearly everything in this world was dependent on it, from kitchen appliances — including those she had discovered yesterday evening, like the _refrigerator_ and the _blender_ — to the lights to all sorts of marvels that served purposes beyond Éponine's reckoning. What a phenomenon!

But there was one thing that surprised her more than anything. In this world, there was no longer any need for outhouses or privies. Toilets were located in the lavatories, inside of homes. She learned this when she finally felt the need to relieve herself. She'd worked out that toilets in this world weren't really much different to the toilets of her own; all she needed to do was sit on their seat. But then Enjolras told her about _flushing_ it, when the smell began to float out of the lavatory half an hour or so after she'd relieved herself, and had shown her that with the mere press of a little button, water came rushing to send the unspeakable contents of the toilet bowl down into the sewers. "And," she hadn't been able to help but whisper, "_everyone_ has one of these in their homes?"

"Well, yes," Enjolras had replied, "they do. Except in some of the poorest countries in the world. I guess some of the people in those countries still use outhouses or the … privy."

The remainder of the morning and all of the afternoon had passed in such a fashion. Éponine was so fascinated by all she was learning that she was almost able to forget herself, ignore the despair that was growing all the stronger in her heart. This world was truly a marvel, but she was afraid of it. She might have been learning about it, but she was no closer to discovering how she'd gotten here, or if there was any way of going back. And she desperately wanted to go back. There were things that had to be seen to. People to save. People to scorn, too, she thought to herself with a bit more bravery than she'd realised she had in her. And also to slap.

Marius was on two of those lists. Her priority was and always had been to save him. Somehow. He was a part of this world, yes, but surely his life still continued back in Paris, in her time? She needed to be there for him, to protect him, to bask in the simplicity of his presence, to be reduced to giggles at the mere sight of him or the sound of his voice like a simple-minded schoolgirl. And she still wanted to kiss him, even if she had somehow come to accept she would never have been able to do that even if she hadn't been shot and found herself here. He had _her_, now, after all.

But the impossibility of her desire did nothing more than kindle it. She wanted to kiss him, to grab at his lapels and stand on her tiptoes and tug him towards her and _kiss him_, taste him, explore and discover him, and then when she was finally finished kissing him she wanted to slap him.

Just … not to this Marius. To _her_ Marius, the Marius that had known and befriended her back home. If she could ever reach him again.

…

On their visit to the Musain that morning, the little place had been quiet and peaceful, with only a few customers and that had been in the latter half of their meal. But when Éponine and Enjolras arrived there this evening, the rain having finally stopped, it was to see it bursting with life and bearing much more semblance to the Musain Éponine had known. The door was wide open and the loud laughter and chatter of its patrons — mostly but not exclusively men — poured out onto the street. Several lounged about outside, smoking cigarettes and gripping large glasses of drink in their free hands. As they passed the cluster of men, one of them winked at Éponine and let out a whistle. She spun to look at him, startled, which made the man laugh quite loudly and drunkenly, but once she got over her surprise she paid him no heed, and marched through the door with her head held high.

She was perfectly used to drunken men, enough so that she no longer feared them as much as she once had.

Enjolras ushered her through the much-livelier pub into a more secluded corner where there was a door. He opened it with ease, suggesting that he'd entered the room many a time without asking for permission, just like with the storage room above the Musain in Paris, and let himself in. Éponine followed suit, and he shut the door behind them.

They were faced with a slightly cramped room lined with shelves holding more bottles of drink. A large table sat in the middle of it, and all around the table were chairs. Chairs with occupants.

A quick scan of the room provided Éponine with no unfamiliar faces, besides the look of moderate surprise on all of them. Surprise, not shock. She supposed that the gossip concerning her mysterious appearance had reached all ears. They might even have been half-expecting her to show up to their ritualistic meeting. She recognised every person in the room, including Marius and even Cosette, although it did take her a moment to put a name to the face of the student sitting in the far corner of the room.

He was leaning back on his chair so that it stood balanced only on its two back legs, and it was the bottle of wine held in his hand that really clued her in. This was Grantaire, but he looked different to the Grantaire of Paris. He was clean-shaven and his dark hair even looked like it had seen a comb once or twice in the past week. He was a little thinner, too, and there were a couple of other changes she couldn't quite put her finger on. But now that she saw past these differences she recognised him. Without the beard, she realised with a start, he was actually rather handsome, though not half so handsome as Marius or Enjolras.

A hand on her shoulder brought her back to Earth. "Éponine?" Enjolras asked in a low voice.

She shrugged him off without aggression. "I'm fine, sir," she replied, lowering herself to sit at the table. "Thank you." No one was saying anything, allowing her more time to further study the group. Her attention was turned back to Cosette. Whatever was _she_ doing here? Cosette wasn't meant to be out and about, and at a pub no less. Wasn't she meant to be shut away in her grand house under her father's overprotective and omnipresent eye? Before she could help herself, Éponine blurted this out: "Whatever are _you_ doing here?"

She made eye contact with the Lark, and the little bird blinked in surprise. "I always come to these meetings," she said as though it were obvious.

"No, you don't," Éponine couldn't help but argue, or keep the acid from her tone.

Cosette looked confused. "Yes, I do."

"Everybody," Enjolras interrupted loudly. He put a hand on Éponine's shoulder again, and she glanced up at him briefly, half-relieved for the interruption. Then she turned her gaze to her toes. "This is Éponine, and I'm guessing you lot all know who she is by now."

There was a collective murmur of acknowledgement and greeting. Éponine looked about the men, hoping one of them would say something, or better still, even call out to her and say, "Éponine, yes, 'Ponine. Yes, I remember you; however could I not?" But no one said a word, and just as Éponine was about to beg them to say, to do something, something to fill this overbearing silence, the door burst open.

A small figure came in, kicking the door shut behind him. He was panting. "Sorry, sorry," he was saying in a thick accent she somehow recognised to be pertaining to the lower class, "I know I'm late, but I missed the bus and then I forgot my Oyster card and I had to go all the way back t' get it and — " But Éponine wouldn't let him say anything more, for she shot to her feet and rushed to him, her cry interrupting his ramble.

"Gavroche!"

Dropping to his height, she embraced him tightly, unable to suppress the sheer joy at seeing him here, because surely, surely her brother remembered her? He was her brother and she loved him more than anyone else in the world, and he was _here_. He even looked the same, small and skinny; round bright blue eyes and overlong ash blond hair to his shoulders. And she was hugging him, he was in her arms, he was _here_ —

He squirmed out of her clutches and looked at her, his little brow knit and his lips pressed tightly together, his own endearing expression of perplexedness. "Hullo," he said sceptically. "Who're _you_?"

She frowned, oblivious now to the onlookers in the room. "Gavroche," she repeated, slowly standing. "Gav, it is me. Surely, oh, Gav, you must … it's me … " She was babbling now. "My dear Gavroche, it's _me_. Your sister."

Gavroche stared up at her. "Already got a sister," he replied.

A hand on her shoulder caused Éponine to spin around. It was Enjolras again, and his expression was sympathetic and gentle. "Éponine," he said soothingly, then crouched to Gavroche's level himself. The eleven-year-old, if indeed eleven he still was, looked at him in genuine confusion. Addressing the child, Enjolras spoke in that same gentle tone. "I'm guessing no one's told you about Éponine?"

Warily, Gavroche shook his head from side to side. "No. I dunno know _who_ she is. Why's she talking to me like she knows me, and what's she mean, 'your sister'?" He glanced up at Éponine, his brow knit, then back at Enjolras. "I've got one of them already."

From there, Enjolras began to gently explain the curious circumstances to the boy, whose frown only deepened with every minute. Éponine listened a moment. She was somewhat taken aback by the gentleness and patience in Enjolras' tone; the young student she'd known in Paris had been anything but patient. When he spoke, it had only ever been in one of two tones of voice: passionate, when talking about his revolution-in-the-making, and only when he had a respectably-sized audience; or short-tempered and irate the rest of the time. And it was difficult enough to be patient with Gavroche, who, bless him, had always been something of a handful and a half. She listened, but soon found herself floating away to the other side of the room where Grantaire was lounging, all too aware of the several pairs of curious eyes that followed her movement. She tried her best to ignore them.

She leaned against the wall and dipped her head in acknowledgement towards this Grantaire. "Hello, sir."

He looked up at her. "So," he said by way of greeting, "you're 'Ponine."

She startled at the fond nickname. Only her siblings and Marius had ever addressed her so. "Yes," she finally answered. "Well, Éponine. And I don't suppose you remember me either."

"'Ponine's way better," he replied as if he hadn't heard the second half of her statement. "You should go by that. From what I understand, you have _memories_ o' me, too." Grantaire emphasised the word _memories _as if he found the entire concept fascinating rather that bizarre. "But I don't think I ever dated you. Or even kissed you."

She smiled wryly. "No. No, you didn't. But if you are the same at all in this world as you were in my own, then I trust you've kissed and courted many women." But then she slowly shook her head, a shadow passing over her eyes. "How much I know about you, Grantaire. About _all_ of you. And you ... you don't know me at all, do you?"

Across the room, Enjolras had stopped speaking to Gavroche, and the child was now looking at Éponine with the same expression of mingled curiosity and sympathy as the others. In fact, all were watching her and had probably listened in on the entire conversation. She tried to pay them all no heed as she looked despairingly at Grantaire, still willing him to have some fleeting flash of memory. He was studying her intensely, but then he shook his head. "Sorry, love."

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down. Sighed. "By now I was expecting as much," she muttered. "You'll forgive my ill manners, sir; all of you must, in fact." Éponine raised her eyes to survey the room's occupants, all those familiar faces with heartbreakingly unfamiliar expressions. Naturally her gaze wandered to Gavroche, her brother; her brilliant, infuriating, saucy, beloved little brother. She longed to hold him again, but dared not. She got the impression that she'd rather alarmed him, and she did not want to shatter any chance at bonding with him in this world, too, somehow, until she found a way to return to her own. But that thought made her feel guilty, because it struck her that forging a relationship with the Gavroche of this world was rather like replacing her own brother who knew her, especially considering the likelihood of his being killed. Oh, how scattered her thoughts got when she was distressed! So then she decided it was best not to think much of anything at all. She'd come to this meeting, after all, by invitation, and she might as well sit and learn what it was Enjolras and his friends talked about if not their revolution and cause. This meeting was not meant to be about _her_.

But perhaps it was, because at that moment Enjolras cleared his throat meaningfully, and dropped into a seat at the head of the table. Drumming his fingers on the table, he surveyed them all, one by one, seeming deep in thought until at last he proclaimed with more familiar authority, "Well, I reckon we shouldn't really talk about, y'know, the usual." There was a collective murmur of agreement. "All that's important, yeah, but we can put it off a day or two."

"Well," Gavroche interrupted. "This is new."

A wave of laughter. Enjolras silenced them all with a glare and Éponine shifted where she stood, unsure of what to make of this returned familiarity in his character. "It's just, we've got Éponine here and it concerns all of us somehow."

"None of us have got any explanations, if that's what you mean," Feuilly spoke up. "We kind of already let the word spread, and got some theories bouncing around. Musings, really. None of it got us any closer to getting the core of this … mystery, if you will."

Enjolras looked miserable.

From there, because no one really knew what to do, the meeting descended into a matter of Éponine being asked a lot of questions, which she answered to the best of her ability but probably with a small degree of helpfulness, and towards the end, her telling each member of the group what she knew of them. This last was something finally proposed by Combeferre. An experiment, he said, to test just how far the reaches of her knowledge on all of them went. She explained to them she didn't know each of them as well as she did Marius or her brother, but she knew enough to stun them all into perplexed silence.

And thus concluded the meeting.

…

"We're no closer to working stuff out than we were since she arrived," Enjolras muttered in an irritated aside to Combeferre as his friends began to file out of the room. He glanced over at Éponine, sitting in the far corner by herself, and watching Marius and Cosette as they talked — or, more accurately, flirted — on the other side of the room. Then he turned his attention back to Combeferre. "I don't know what the bloody hell to do."

Combeferre looked over at Éponine, then back at Enjolras. "Well, I think we know one thing."

Enjolras straightened. "Yeah?"

"Éponine fancies him."

He looked over at Éponine again, at Marius and Cosette, then at Éponine again. "Does she?" he asked, genuinely intrigued. Éponine had never said anything about the matter.

"Mate. Just look at the way she — oh, never mind. I sometimes forget who I'm talking to." Combeferre chose to ignore Enjolras' glower and clasped his hands together. "Anyhow. You said you weren't taking her to a hospital, so fine. I wouldn't recommend it, but you, well, she, has reasons. You said you wanted me to give her a quick check-up earlier; do you still want me to … ?"

"Yes," Enjolras said suddenly. "Yeah, that'd be brilliant. Thanks. Maybe now-ish'd be great."

Combeferre nodded. "Sure." And then, with his own patient and gentle authority, he talked to Éponine and cleared out the last of the room's lingering occupants, including Enjolras. He shut the door as Enjolras left, and then it was just him and Éponine in the room as Combeferre did … well, whatever it was he did.

The pub was noisy, and crowded as ever, and Enjolras found himself wandering idly towards the exit. He lounged about just outside the door, but near the window so he might be spotted by Combeferre and Éponine whenever they were finished. He ignored the half-drunk smoking blokes loitering about not a foot away, and removed his mobile from his pocket, scrolling through his several missed text messages. It wasn't until slightly under fifteen minutes went by that he noticed Marius and Cosette were standing some feet away. He wandered over to them and noticed that Cosette had a bulky rubbish bag slung over her shoulder. She waved at him as he approached. "Oi, oi." Marius gave a mock salute of his own.

Enjolras gestured towards the bag. "What's that, then?"

Cosette patted the bag. "This? Oh, it's clothes. For Éponine. I've got plenty, and reckoned she might as well borrow some; yours are way too big on her." She grinned. "Even put in all my dresses, seeing as I hardly ever wear them. I was thinking she might, I dunno, feel a little more comfortable with skirts. Mind you, they're _very_ different to the ones she, ah, remembers from 1832, but they're skirts all the same." She shrugged. "Anyway. You get my point."

Enjolras nodded, his hands finding his pockets, and just then he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned to see Combeferre with Éponine trailing behind him. "Well? How is she?" Enjolras asked.

Combeferre's brow was furrowed. "I can't figure it out," he said in a low voice. "There's, well, nothing. She's _fine_. No concussion, but no signs of head trauma either. Like, none. She hasn't even got a bump on her head. I told Éponine not to worry about it; told her it was good news, y'know, that she was fine and all. But the fact that she _is_ fine … worries me. Oh, and she even showed me where she said she'd gotten hit by that bullet? Bit of scarring, but … she seems _fine_." Combeferre glanced over his shoulder. Éponine was hovering some distance away, seemingly lost in thought.

Enjolras frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I mean," was Combeferre's low reply, "that that girl is fine. She's unharmed. She's absolutely okay and she shouldn't be. I don't even know if we _should_ call a doctor at all anymore. She was so opposed to the idea; scared, even, you said, and if they take a look at her and see no signs of trauma, they'll probably just … " Trailing off, he raised his hands in surrender. "I dunno, mate. This is mental; this is weird; this is way out of my depth. But do ring me if anything new comes up, or if you reckon I can help in any way or … yeah." He nodded a farewell and turned on his heel, walked away, glancing over his shoulder once to wave.

Enjolras turned despairingly towards Marius and Cosette. The two of them had come in closer to hear Combeferre, and they both wore the bewildered expressions that seemed to have become the resting faces of the lot of them.

"None of this," he said emphatically, unnecessarily; though more to himself than to Marius and Cosette, "makes a lick of sense." He really did hate it when things were so.


	8. Chapter 8

.

**New World for the Winning**

Author's Note: First off, my apologies for the very, very long wait for an update. If you're reading this, it means you haven't given up on me, which is good, and it means I can explain to those of you that remain that I was on holiday for a while and unable to update. I got back home on 19 August. While away I did, however, write this chapter out by hand, which means that I transcribed it and edited it as quickly as I could to put it up on the site.  
Second, the street mentioned in this chapter, Crickhollow Street, is not a real street in London. (At least not as far as I know). It's just a street I made up, and its name is a little reference to _Lord of the Rings_, if you were wondering how I came up with it.

* * *

Chapter Eight

…

Night had finally settled over London, a very clear one; perhaps to make up for the day's rainfall. Only the thinnest sheen of clouds covered the sky. The moon made itself at home. But this was London, and Gavroche had walked the quarter-hour walk to Soho. The city was a long way off from going to bed as of yet, despite the moon's silver-gold prompts.

Gavroche liked it in this part of town, which was why he'd decided to walk this far before taking the Underground home to South London. He liked the crowds and the music and the chatter that poured out of every second bar. He liked being in what seemed to him to be the main thrust of all things, to have such _life_ thrumming about him, and to be able to pass through the crowds half-unnoticed. He was just eleven — twelve come November — but looked quite a few years younger; he was small and quick. Soho was one of his most frequented lingering-places, especially by night. And while he may not have been able to purchase alcohol, it didn't stop him from nicking the odd glass or beer bottle.

He wandered with his usual cheer, even whistling to himself, until he finally found himself at Charing Cross station, and reluctantly trotted down the stairs to the platform. He rode on the train and idly watched the other passengers, but like the rest of his friends, his mind was elsewhere. Gavroche wondered at the girl, Éponine.

She'd said she was his sister.

A puzzling concept — Gavroche had one of those already and he was fairly certain he didn't have any others. He was five years younger than his existing sister who had told him nothing of any others running about. Gavroche hadn't met her properly until he was seven, mind you: he'd been donated, so to speak, to the foster system when he was two. He'd been lucky enough to have gone through only three foster families since then. And when he was seven, he'd gone to live with a third and still current set of foster parents in London, where by coincidence, his birth family had also recently settled. He and his birth parents were happy to ignore each other's existence, but he'd forged a bond with his sister. There hadn't been any other children.

He tried not to brood on it. That Éponine girl had known too much about him to make him feel comfortable, but she'd actually been very nice, and after some pondering Gavroche decided that he liked her. Probably it was just as Enjy had said — the poor girl had hit her head and gone mental. He felt sorry for her, and hoped she came right again soon.

It wasn't his concern, though, not exactly anyway. That was to say, there wasn't much he could do to help. So he went on quite with typical carelessness as he dismounted the train when it reached his station and walked the two short blocks to the estates, whistling on his way.

…

Éponine was feeling fairly tired by the time she and Enjolras got back to his flat, as might have been assumed, seeing how early she'd risen. She went almost straight to bed, in fact, upon arrival, thanking Enjolras in that funny formal way of hers for allowing her another night in his house. But he himself lingered in the sitting room, sprawled on the sofa with his head resting on one armrest and his sock-covered toes touching the one opposite.

He didn't know what to do.

Éponine showed no sign at all of head trauma, Combeferre had said. What the hell did that mean? Whatever it meant, he knew he couldn't take her to a hospital at any rate. The only option left was to try and locate her family. She hadn't mentioned her surname to him, but he hoped she'd give it to him if prompted. In the meantime, and on something of a whim, Enjolras fired up his laptop.

First he checked the headlines on the Guardian and Independent in the hopes of finding any reports on girls gone missing in London, and when this failed he did a Google search of the same thing, then Paris, just in case, but he came up with nothing. A final search of merely _éponine + london + missing _proved useless, and in annoyance he slammed the laptop shut.

Locating Éponine's family would have to wait until morning, it would seem, but it was a considerable hindrance. He would require the Internet for that, and he wasn't sure he was prepared to explain such a phenomenon, nor that Éponine was ready. Mayhap he'd ring 'Ferre in the morning for help.

Enjolras stored his laptop away and dragged himself off to bed. It had been another long day and he was surprised to realise just then how exhausted he was. He peered into Éponine's room as he went by. She was asleep already, and seemingly wearing his pyjamas again, though they were too large on her and she'd been given two sets of pyjamas and a nightie by Cosette. In fact, the bulky bag of Cosette's clothes sat on the floor and looked quite untouched. But more importantly, and to Enjolras' relief, Éponine seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

Enjolras watched her a moment — her head resting against the pillow and her dark hair fanning out behind her, one arm dangling lazily over the edge of the bed, the shape of her under the sheets. Her chest rising and falling just so. He watched her, then backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him quietly. Then he slipped off to bed himself, and he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling for a long while before sleep took him.

…

Come morning, Éponine woke feeling quite refreshed, more so than ever she could recall, for while she felt well-rested she had no desire to rise just yet. This bed was so comfortable, and the bedclothes so soft; she yearned to lounge here for hours yet. But she knew such an option was unavailable to her so she instead forced herself to rise. She peered out the bedroom door and looked up and down the corridor but did not see Enjolras. _I suppose he is asleep still_.

She wandered towards the _lav_ as Enjolras called it with a mind to wash her face, for there was no washbasin in her borrowed bedroom, but she found the door locked and could hear through the door the sound of running water. It took her a moment to recognise it as the specific sound of water coming from the thing called a shower. It was one of many wonders in this world that were new to her. By now she had discovered and learned of so many that they had all become part of one greater blur, and she only remembered them when again she encountered them. The shower had been an early discovery she'd enjoyed greatly, and she wondered if ever she should take one again.

Éponine did not have to wonder for too long. Enjolras soon came out of the lav fully dressed, raking a brightly-coloured comb through his hair. She had been standing without thinking right in front of the door, quite straight and still with her hands folded in front of her, just like a proper lady should stand when in expectation of something or someone, so she gave him something of a fright when he opened the door. He jumped back with a yelp, and Éponine scurried back, struggling to suppress a giggle. "I'm sorry for frightening you," she said around a smirk. "But a good morning to you, sir!"

He stepped around her. "Er, right — good morning, Éponine." He waved towards the lavatory door. "Did you want to take a shower, too?"

Éponine beamed. "Oh! Oh, _could_ I? Yes, please — thank you." She made for the door.

"Hang on — Éponine?" She turned. "Don't you want to get some clothes first, those clothes that Cosette loaned you? You can leave them in the lav with you while you shower, if you want. Much easier that way."

She hesitated, regarding him in uncertainty. She did not want to wear the Lark's clothing. Indeed, she wanted to have nothing to do with her and resented the fact that she'd been loaned anything belonging to the Lark, resented her everlasting simpering sweetness. And yet …

She did not want to trouble Enjolras to borrow more of his clothes, which were much too large on her to boot, and still felt awkward in trousers. And of course it would be most indecent of her to go about in naught but these nightclothes. (Which also belonged to Enjolras anyway, and therefore were also rather too large on her).

"All right," she finally said with deep reluctance. "Oh, I suppose I ought."

Éponine returned to the bedroom, and then began to search the contents of the bag in search of appropriate garments. She found a dress which she selected with gratitude; it would be a relief to go back to wearing skirts. What made this more comforting still was that most girls of this world, including Cosette, seemed to wear trousers like _men_.

The dress she held in front of her now wasn't anything like the dresses of a bourgeoisie in 1832. The skirt only went a little past her knees and the sleeves were cut so short they did not even reach her elbows. More curiously, she could not find much in the way of undergarments, no petticoats or corsets to speak of. So Éponine went without either. She found stockings and one garment that covered only her bottom, which she took to be all there was in the way of underclothes. There was even a pair of shoes that only pinched her toes the tiniest bit. Éponine now held the dress out at arm's length. "Why, you blasted, dear little Lark, Cosette!" she murmured to herself, then headed off to the shower, shaking her head.

Éponine undressed and left the clothes and Enjolras' pyjamas draped over the towel rack. She stepped into the small cubicle and turned the water on, proud she could remember how to work such a fantastic mechanism, having used it only once before.

Meanwhile, Enjolras got to work scouring the cupboards, finding various items that would more or less do for breakfast if only he had ingredients with which to accompany them: instant hot chocolate; Nescafe; dried prunes; strawberry marmalade; dry cornflakes. But he did, towards the back of the cupboard, find a box of instant porridge envelopes two days shy of their expiry date. Holding out the box, Enjolras considered for a moment then nodded to himself and moved to set some water to boil, muttering to himself. "Porridge it is, then."

And that was what Éponine saw when she left the washroom, two steaming bowls of porridge and two mugs of tea. She was rubbing a towel through her dripping hair. At the sight of breakfast on the table her face brightened, and she stood behind her chair, draping her towel over the chair-back. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, but this is all very nice!" She beamed across the table at Enjolras, who himself was already seated. But Éponine remained standing, her hands folded behind her back as if awaiting invitation. Awkwardly, Enjolras, unsure what was the appropriate way to react, waved vaguely at the table. At once she pulled her chair out and sat down, seizing the spoon beside her bowl. She looked into the bowl then, peered at its contents.

"It's — " Enjolras began helpfully.

"Porridge," she interrupted. "Oh … I remember having it once or twice … yes, yes, I do. It never was a very French thing to eat, but it was popular for a time, and in a few occasions my mother prepared us _porridge_ for breakfast." She gave a little laugh.

As was so often the case, Enjolras didn't know what to say. Éponine was free with sharing memories of her life in "her world," describing and voicing them plainly when they came to her. Again he wondered what was actual memory, perhaps altered slightly, and what was pure falsehood, "memory" her mind spun out in response to objects. But all he did was nod.

Éponine tasted the porridge and her eyes widened. "It's very good, sir," she said after swallowing. "Mmm! Although I must wonder, for I am so curious, however did you manage to cook it so quickly?" Enjolras opened his mouth to deliver a halting answer, but Éponine seemed to be just musing. "Though I saw nothing of oats or milk in your, your … " she faltered.

"Fridge?" he supplied.

"Yes, that is the word! _Fridge_. No, sir, I saw none to speak of. Did you tend to shopping during the night?"

"Ah, the oats were in the cupboard." No need to explain instant meals, and his answer satisfied Éponine, who nodded and took another spoonful. Enjolras would very much liked to spend a day with her, he realised. Spend it idly sitting about in the flat, or take her to a museum. The British Museum was mere blocks away. But there were more important things at hand, he reminded himself with sudden regret. Going back to that mention of her family a minute ago. It was convenient she'd said anything of them just now; it served as a perfect segway for what he'd been meaning to say.

"So." Enjolras cleared his throat. "You were saying about your mother …?"

She snapped to attention, a guard on full alert with rifle at the ready. "Yes …?" she said warily.

"Well," Enjolras said stoutly, "I imagine she must be worried sick about you by now, no?"

Éponine regarded him with new coolness. She took a small bite of porridge. "I think not," she finally said flatly.

"But," he faltered. "Your parents. I reckoned you, you'd miss them, and — "

She interrupted. "Forgive me, sir, but I've no desire to see either my mother or my father again, nor any of his little friends. But my father especially. I am quite happy, as it were, seeing as I can think of no way to part from this world and return home, that it had seemed as if I should never see _them_ again. And I wish not to seek them out here in this world and learn whether or not they are a part of it." She didn't mention the fact that came to her mind just then: that if Gavroche was a part of this world, then intuitively her parents must be, too.

Enjolras bit his lip. Was Éponine afraid of her parents? "Just … okay. To tell you the truth, I'm not on the friendliest of terms with my parents either. But, I guess you don't even wanna try and find them?"

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "No."

He toyed with his spoon. Now what? Finding her family was the best way he could come up with in the name of helping her. Feeling guilty, Enjolras played his last card. "Éponine, look. It's really your best option. And if … if you're so opposed to seeing your parents … didn't you say you had a sister?"

Something sparked in Éponine's gaze. "Yes, I have — Azelma."

"Right," said Enjolras, nodding, though in his mind something almost clicked. Where had he heard that name before? "And maybe … you, I dunno, wanted to find _her_ at least."

Éponine averted her eyes. "I don't suppose she shall remember me at all. How strange that I am struck with this impression," she added wryly. "But," she continued, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper, as if she were talking to herself, "when I went to the barricades, disguised as a man and not counting on returning, Azelma was one of the very few I felt I was really leaving behind." Éponine looked up. "Fine, then — find my family, if you so insist, and if you can. To my understanding, London is a big city. I don't know how you would."

"Actually," said Enjolras, relaxing, "it shouldn't prove all that hard to do that. Let's finish breakfast first, and then we'll, ah … " He thought, and muttered to himself, "Damn the fact we don't have phonebooks anymore," Éponine blinked at him and he righted himself. "I'll get Combeferre to help."

"Very well." She looked bemused.

From there they breakfasted in silence. Éponine ate quickly, her shoulders hunched just so over her bowl, as if expecting someone to take it from her. But she savoured the tea a little more, so the two of them finished at nearly the same time, she only a bit before him. The dirty dishes were deposited in the kitchen sink.

Then Enjolras leaned against the counter, and opposite him stood Éponine. "Right then," he said. "Hmm … okay. Éponine, care to tell me your last name?"

She nodded. "Yes, it is _Thénardier_ — no, _Jondrette_."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows but snatched up a pen and paper. He handed them to Éponine and asked her to write it down. Dutifully she did so, head bent and brow furrowed in utmost concentration. She wrote slowly, and her hand was large, crooked, and messy, as though she were out of practise. Enjolras looked at the paper a long while. "And you're sure it's Jondrette?" he couldn't help but ask.

Éponine looked affronted. "Why, yes, sir! I'm sure I know my own name. Éponine, Éponine Jondrette."

"Okay, okay, I believe you. It's just, you said _Thénardier_ first."

"That was a long time ago," said Éponine by way of explanation.

"Right," said Enjolras haltingly. "Well, tell you what — I'm going to have me a talk with Combeferre. He might, er, have a way to find your family, find out their address and number." He pushed off the counter and thrust his hands in his pockets. He began to back out of the room.

But his words caught Éponine's attention. "So! Combeferre again, you say? But this is not the first time you'll have been speaking with him in your own home. I beg your pardon, sir," she went on eagerly, "but I don't understand fully. All this about speaking with him … however do you do so? How is he coming in? How, when, as far to my knowledge, Combeferre is not here?"

Enjolras cleared his throat. "Well … that's complicated," he said evasively. "But no, 'Ferre's not here, and no, he's not getting in any other way. Only way in here's the front door, unless, I guess, one of the windows." He waited for Éponine to take his rather dismissive answer and press him further in return, but all she did was give one nod. Enjolras hastened to dive back into his room.

He lay on his bed, heaved a sigh, and groped for his mobile where it sat on the night table. He called Combeferre on speed dial. His friend answered on the third ring, and his cheerful tone of voice upon doing so hinted that he'd been up for hours already, being the freak of nature that he was; it was only ten in the AM. "Oi, oi, rise and shine."

"I've already had breakfast, thank you _very_ much, and Éponine has too. Granted, I'd very much like to be in bed still, but I've got loads of stuff to do today." Enjolras propped himself up on his elbows and leaned his head against the wall.

"Concerning Éponine."

"Well … yes. I spent a fair bit of time thinking, and I think I've come up with a next step — hopefully one of the last. Puzzling about it all is draining, y'know."

"Oh, of course. I'd hate to think what it does to your perfect skin, Enjy." Combeferre laughed, then his tone went appropriately grave. "But that's good, mate. And?"

"Finding her family. Mind, she wasn't keen on the idea, but she did eventually give me her last name, which I was hoping you could look up on the Internet and ring me back with the address. We'd go and see them today, maybe."

A pause as Combeferre probably nodded and pondered. "I could do that," he said slowly. "What was her last name?"

Enjolras spelled it for him, and Combeferre hung up with a promise to ring back within the quarter-hour. Because he didn't have a mind to go out and explain all the technicalities to Éponine, he waited in his room for 'Ferre's call, and passed the time rolling a stray pair of (possibly dirty) socks into a ball, and tossing it into the air and catching it. It was an idle activity, a rhythm of toss, reach, catch; toss, reach, catch; interrupted here and there with fumbling.

Finally Combeferre called back. Enjolras let his makeshift ball fall to the ground and groped for his phone, fumbling for the _Accept Call_ button. "Yeah?" he said immediately.

"Well, the good news is there's only one listed _Jondrette_ family in London," came Combeferre's answer, ready and calm. "They're in Whitechapel, I'm afraid."

This made some sense to Enjolras, considering Éponine's ragged state. Still, she'd looked more like something out of an image of Victorian Whitechapel rather than the district today. An oddity, that. But all he said was, "Right, okay."

Combeferre gave him an address for some street he didn't know, presumably one of Whitechapel's many back-alleys — 28 Crickhollow Street, apartment 102. Enjolras scribbled it down. "Mm-hmm, okay," he muttered mostly to himself. "So. I'll have to print a detail map off the Internet for that … "

"But there's a problem," Combeferre cut in. "How d'you plan to _get _there?"

"Ah," said Enjolras. "Yes. That."

"It's too far to walk," Combeferre continued unnecessarily. "Not a single one of us have a car. And those would just make her nervous, so even a taxicab is out. Expensive anyway. And the tube will also probably do nothing more than terrify her." He paused. "Now I would suggest bikes — you could borrow mine — but they hadn't been invented as early in the century as Éponine thinks she comes from and teaching her to ride would be too much hassle. Besides, there're no good bike paths going all the way to Whitechapel: London's no Amsterdam." Another thoughtful pause. "Well, bus, then. Only way."

Enjolras groaned. Buses required more explanations he wasn't prepared to beneficially offer. But Combeferre was right: bikes would take too much effort, and while Combeferre might have had one to loan, Enjolras' had been nicked a month ago, on one of the rare occasions he'd taken it out to get a few necessities at the local Tesco.

"You'll be fine, mate," Combeferre said, hearing the groan and knowing full well what it meant. "Just be your own thoughtful, sociable self."

…

Ten minutes later, Enjolras emerged from his room with two sheets of paper he'd printed off the Internet, one a map of the Whitechapel district and one with bus route directions. The way was thankfully easy; only one change was necessary if they walked to Holborn nearby. He found Éponine sitting on the sofa, where she might have been the whole time, patiently awaiting his return. She looked up as he approached. Her face was grim.

"Well, we found out where your family's living," he said haltingly. Éponine blinked but did not reply. She did not seem altogether happy with the news. "Probably," he added. No answer. "I've, er, got the address and directions. On how to get there, I mean."

There was a pause.

At last Éponine deadpanned, "And you wish for me to go find them now, sir, as you were saying. Well then, so be it. Let us go now, then." She stood up and dusted herself off. Tossed her head. All Enjolras could do was nod self-consciously. "So I had Combeferre look up — "

"Yes," she interrupted eagerly. "I had meant to ask you. How _is_ it, then, that you can speak with him if he is not present?"

Enjolras paused. "Well," he said slowly, then went for a stalling tactic. "Listen, what do you we say we start walking first and then I tell you on the way?" Éponine nodded. Her face was set somewhere between grim determination (at going to find that family of hers, no doubt) and eagerness at "learning" something new. Enjolras hastened to open the door for her, and let her pass before him, being fairly certain that this had been the custom of men to do for women in the old days. All that catering towards the more delicate sex and whatnot. It seemed the appropriate thing to do with Éponine to his mind, and she didn't question it. They walked down the stairs and up the street side-by-side, Éponine dutifully following and not even asking where they were going with strange trustfulness. Whenever they reached an intersection, she even followed his lead at quickly looking both ways before continuing more quickly across the street. She stiffened every time a car whizzed by, sometimes even froze if they were about to cross the street, but each time she would finally relax and continue.

After a few paces he began in an awkward tone, and Éponine listened. "Well, then," he said, "I talked to Combeferre by use of — " he thrust a hand into his jeans pocket and produced his mobile — "_this_. This is a phone." He sighed. "And I wager you don't remember what those are either." He stated rather than asked it, and for her part Éponine shook her head, her eyes on the device in his hand. "Well, it's modern technology. Basically, most everyone nowadays has one of these."

From here he launched into a confusing — to Éponine's ears, at least — and complex description of the small panel-like device called a mobile phone, which he sometimes shortened either to _mobile_ or _phone_. What little Éponine could understand was a marvel. By use of the small device, one could speak to anyone in all the world, for each phone had its own assigned number. If he knew somebody's number he might punch it into the little keys that he could make appear on the panel's dimly glowing screen. And just like that, it was possible to speak to the person whom he was "calling" even if they were far away. What was more, Enjolras told her that these curious devices had been invented years and years ago, though only recently had they been updated so that one might carry them around in one's pocket. He spoke, too, of such things as _ringtones_ and _landlines_ — whatever that meant. However could such a fantastic device work, she wondered? Either way, Éponine found that Enjolras' explanation left her spellbound. She liked listening to him speak, and she stared dumbly at him the whole time with eyes shinning and her mouth half-open, this daft expression only changing into something of a smile whenever he fumbled for words. She observed that he ran his fingers through his golden curls or scratched at the back of his neck whenever he did this; she thought it very … very … sweet, she decided. Endearing, even.

She realised that Enjolras had stopped speaking, and wondered when he had done. She moved on to her next query. "But how does Combeferre _know_ where my family dwells? Indeed, he scarcely knew me in my world — I doubt he knew my surname, let alone my address!"

Enjolras scratched his neck. "Well, he, he," he said in that endearing — yes, it really _was _endearing — fashion, "let's just say he has this book that lists all the families in London, by their last name, all organised alphabetically, and you can look up someone's address by searching their name. Close enough an explanation, anyway," she heard him mutter to himself in an aside. She noticed next that now they had stopped walking. Why was all this failing to catch her attention? Normally she was quick and observant. Street-smart. Her sharp wits and instincts were what had allowed her to survive in Paris as long as she had. _You must get a hold of yourself, Éponine. Whatever has gotten into you?_

Now she took the time to analyse her surroundings. They were standing by a tall, thick concrete post covered in notices. A metal bench was nearby, but that was all. The bench was long enough to seat many and was full.

She gave the bench's occupants a quick scan. No one she knew from her world. There was an old woman with her cane resting in her lap, and two people — a young man and a middle-aged, dark-skinned woman — both reading books. A boy of twelve or so was staring as if bewitched at one of the glowing _phones_ like Enjolras', but his was larger, and a thin cord that at some point split into two snaked from it; the two opposite ends went into either of the boy's ears. Finally, Éponine saw the more familiar sight of an old gentleman behind a newspaper.

Her father used to read the newspaper in Montfermeil, sometimes, always with a pipe in his mouth and a cup of ale or wine in easy reach; he used to flip through his newspaper muttering to himself: "Heaps of nonsense … why it is I so oft waste good money on this rubbish, I shall never know … good money could be spent on pipe-weed or drink but no, I throw it all away for _this_ … alas! What a fool I am! … my dear Éponine," he sometimes said, "bear well in mind that all reporters are idiotic fools. Now, while a fool I may be, I am not half so foolish as a reporter. Note that down, my lass, note that down … now, do be a good girl and re-fill my glass … "

Éponine shook her head at the memory. It had been a long seven years since Montfermeil and since her father had read the newspaper. She cared not to reflect on such times, when she'd been a stupid little girl, quick to do her parents' bidding. And she'd been happy back then. A happy, stupid little brat. Sometimes she thought back and loathed that little girl of the past, whose most rebellious acts had been climbing trees and playing rough with some of the village boys in the street.

"Sir?" she asked Enjolras now. "Why have we stopped, pray tell?"

A clearing of the throat. "We're waiting for … for the bus, Éponine. It's how we're getting to your parents' place. They're in Whitechapel, that's the East End — too far to walk." He glanced at his wrist-watch. "Should be here in a couple minutes."

More discoveries to be made! "The bus? And so it shall be like, like a carriage — a hansom cab?" She paused, and before he could answer she burst out, "Oh! Have you omnibuses in this world, too? Or at the very least something similar?" She hastened to explain, thrilled at the opportunity to take her turn playing teacher. "Those were large, longer carriages which could seat as many as a dozen people; the largest could carry a bit more still. One paid a fare to ride them and it would take them places all over the city, with scheduled stops along the way. Well, all over the reasonably well-off places at any rate. I never rode in one, of course, but I saw them going by." She smiled, perhaps a bit smugly.

Enjolras nodded, seeming to understand and plainly glad he'd been spared having to give an explanation. "Like that, yeah. But we just call them buses, and they're bigger nowadays. Plenty more than a dozen or even two dozen people can ride them at one time, and there are lots of them. And they're not carriages run by horses. They run by something called engines."

"Oh! So like a locomotive?"

The word did not seem to be a part of his daily vocabulary, yet Enjolras seemed to understand. "Yeah," he said. "Like a locomotive. I didn't know you had those in — your time."

"Oh, but we did. They are very new — or were, I suppose I must say. Most modern marvels. But yes, they do exist … though I must say I've never seen one before." Éponine folded her hands behind her back and leaned out to look onto the street, which was as ever packed with the crawling metal creatures. She was most eager to see a 2015 omnibus. She wondered what it would look like, and how big it was, and if the fare was very expensive.

And see it she did, before long. It was huge, larger than ever she could have imagined, and fast. Éponine gasped and scampered as far backwards as she could on the sidewalk as it approached with its alarming speed, sure it would run her down. Painted bright red, the bus was long, and broad, and a full two storeys high; she could see that up top there were little windows with people at them, though few of them looked out onto the city. What was more, the bus stank to high heaven. Suddenly it pulled frightfully close to the kerb, but it slowed to a stop. Then, to her bewilderment as her shock began to pass, it seemed to _lower_, until it produced a shrill beeping sound and its doors folded open. At once a host of people poured out. Éponine, who had begun to edge closer and was standing directly in front of one set of doors, had to be tugged sharply aside by Enjolras lest she be barrelled over, or at least be given a rough elbowing about. Once several of the passengers dismounted, Éponine and Enjolras could finally board. Upon boarding the bus Enjolras produced a blue-and-white card which he passed over a flat circular panel, then dropped several coins into a glass collections-box. It took Éponine a moment to realise that this meant Enjolras had paid for her fare. She hastened to thank him, but Enjolras, with characteristic nonchalance, merely shrugged. "Anytime," he said. "Now do you want to ride up top?" He pointed to a flight of stairs, which they were now shuffling towards.

"Might we?" Éponine gasped. She did not at all like it here on the bus. It was cramped and packed and made her feel altogether claustrophobic. Perhaps, she thought, it was roomier upstairs.

He nodded, so up they went, finding two unoccupied seats near towards the back. Éponine took the window seat. It was a little better up here but not much. Looking out the window helped. Suddenly the bus lurched violently, causing Éponine to grasp wildly at the back of the seat in front of her and gasp, but then the bus began to move.

For a long while Éponine gazed out onto the city, drawing in as much as she could. She was comforted by how many buildings looked very old. All of them would have been in nice parts of town, of course, for they all looked majestic and beautiful. She saw no buildings like those in Paris' slums, houses as weathered and bent as the old beggars that lingered around them. But all the same, the old buildings made her feel a touch closer to home, and she wondered at the architectural situation in Paris. Were many of its older buildings standing still? And what of the majestic and ancient Notre Dame?

She looked and pondered and Enjolras left her alone to her thoughts, for which she was grateful. It was in fact she who interrupted his peace of mind some time later, rather without meaning to, for a thought had just occurred to her. "You said this bus runs by means of a locomotive?" she blurted.

Enjolras nodded. "Something like one."

"But then," she pressed, "where, pray tell, are the steam-pipes, the chimneys? I did not see one. And where is the locomotive bit?"

"The … the locomotive, the engine, it's built-in. And the bus spits out exhaust fumes from the bottom, which I guess is the closest thing nowadays to a steam-pipe."

She peered out onto the street. "Ah! So all those crawling metals beasts, the ones you told me are like carriages, those run in a similar way, do they? They are everywhere."

"Yeah," said Enjolras. He sounded impressed. "Yeah, actually. Those are cars. And in 2015, engines are used for everything, all forms of transport, except for bikes, I suppose. Cars, buses, trains … er, you haven't seen an aeroplane yet." He cleared his throat. "Well, nowadays they can even fly in the air over the sea."

"Pray don't mock my knowledge, sir!" said Éponine in injured tones. "I may have come from 1832; but I know a lot of things, I do. And I know that a locomotive can't fly through the air!"

…

The entire ride was longer, in the end, than Éponine had anticipated. At one point they had to dismount the bus and climb aboard another. The second bus was smaller and she sat rigidly the whole ride. "All right there?" Enjolras had asked her. All she'd been able to do was nod stiffly, then shut her eyes against oncoming waves of nausea. Now they'd finally gotten off and were walking towards the direction of the family's home of this world.

Éponine could tell they were in a poor part of the city. This was nothing like Paris' slums, mind you, nothing in the least. But the buildings were in more weathered condition than in Enjolras' part of town, it was true: a few broken windows, or window-frames coming off; a stronger reek of rubbish rotting in the sun; here and there the road was littered with broken bottles and glass, though not in excessive amounts. And the streets were not packed with beggars and wild, dirty little urchins as in the slums of Paris. If these were the closest thing London had to slums, it must be the most magnificent city in all the world.

One thing struck her above all else, and that was in regards to the buildings: they all looked the same. Once they passed a few poorly-kept shops, they found themselves as if in a maze — in a confusing web of weaving streets lined with towering, ugly grey buildings, all of them _exactly the same_. Some streets were narrower than others, and these held slightly smaller brick buildings, none of them looking any better than the grey ones.

Éponine followed Enjolras for a while. Eventually they stopped before one of the few slightly smaller brick buildings, marked _28_ at its front door. Enjolras gave her a sidelong glance. "Ready."

She nodded. "I suppose I had better be."

They walked up a few worn concrete steps, eroded, probably, by constant use. The door to the building was open, and they walked past the threshold. Slowly. _Deep breaths, Éponine_. They walked up one flight of stairs to the first-floor landing and made for the door at the end of the long, narrow corridor, marked _102_.

The off-white paint on the walls was flaking.

An electric light was flickering.

A fly buzzed about.

No marking on the door suggested any man who called himself Jondrette might be dwelling there, and Éponine's heart leapt with stupid hope for a moment, hope that Combeferre had been mistaken, then sank down to her toes. Just before the door they stopped. Éponine felt a hand slip into hers and squeeze, once, then let go.

Enjolras knocked.

From behind the door came a familiar voice, in a low hiss. "Bloody _shite_!" Shuffling. The hurriedly padding footsteps of bare of stocking-clad feet. The door opened just a crack, and any view into the apartment was blocked by the scrawny frame of Azelma Thénardier.

Éponine's breath caught in her chest and stayed there.

For here was her sister, and yet the look on her face made it plain she'd never seen Éponine before. "Can I help you?" she finally asked them in a nervous tone.

Azelma had never looked a thing like her older sister. From childhood, even when enjoying perfect health she'd been pale and skinny, with messy, bushy auburn hair and knobbly knuckles. Only in her eyes, wide and dark, could any semblance be placed between the two sisters. In Paris Azelma had always had the look of a rag doll shaken a bit too hard a few too many times. The look of her here was identical. Though she wore no oversized patched-up dresses, she was clad in a white shirt whose sleeves reached her elbows and whose hem brushed her bony knees. All she had on besides was a pair of short, bright green stockings.

Éponine noticed Enjolras staring at something held in her hand and followed his gaze to it: a small clear satchel filled with some white powdery substance. When she caught them looking, she tossed it onto what could be seen from this angle of a hall table. Her face was guarded when she repeated, "Can I help you?"

"Azelma," Éponine heard herself saying stupidly. She fought the urge to sweep her into her arms. Or break down sobbing. "'Zelma, it is me: your sister."

Azelma's expression changed into something indecipherable. She took a tiny step out the door without opening it any wider. "My sister's _dead_."


	9. Chapter 9

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Nine

…

Éponine stared at Azelma. She was not even sure how to take the news, such was her bewilderment, and her face was stuck somewhere between shock and confusion, with a dash of unwarranted fear. Her mouth half-open, her brow knit. She found her breath at last; it came in panting heaves.

Next thing she knew, a hand was patting her back gently. Enjolras. He looked just as shocked as Éponine felt, his emotions written all over his face. It was he who found his voice first. "H-How do you mean?"

Azelma's dark eyes shot his way, looked him up and down. "I mean … what it sounds like," she said delicately. "My sister's dead." She shrugged, but then something of a dangerous look entered her eyes, a hint of kindled fire Éponine had never seen in her sister's face before. Defiance. "What is this? Some sick joke or what?" Her hands clutched at the hem of her shirt tightly, and she worried the fabric between her long fingers.

Enjolras glanced sidelong at Éponine. The poor girl was still stuck in her state of shock, so still patting her back, he stuck his chin out and took on the important tone he usually reserved for scolding his friends when they were mucking about at meetings. "She's not kidding, really she's not. But it's … a long story."

Those sloe brown eyes turned on him, and Enjolras, too, noticed the hint of fierceness in their depths. It was reserved, and uncertain, little more than embers if at all, but suddenly, despite their lack of common physical characteristics, he noticed some small semblance to Éponine. Whatever this was, it was far beyond mere coincidence. Just as the sparks began to flare, they sputtered-coughed-died, and the scrawny kid standing in the doorway shrank back down again. "Huh," was all she said. "So, who're you, then?" Her tone was cool, but forced. There was a tremor in her voice, which was thick with an accent he couldn't quite place. Not a Common accent at any rate, despite the fact she might as well have been the poster child for the very, very worst conditions of Whitechapel. She must have moved from another part of England in the recent past.

Enjolras paused. "I'm a friend of Éponine's. I'm called Enjolras."

Now it was Azelma's turn to frown, to knit her pale brows together. She crossed her skinny arms over her chest. "Enjolras?" she repeated, almost to herself. She whispered it several times over, _Enjolras-Enjolras-Enjolras_, like a mantra. At last her gaze travelled upwards to meet his eyes. "Enjolras," she said one more time. "My God. Not … sorry, it's just, ah, look. Not — Gav's Enjolras? Gavroche? He's my little brother," she added.

Éponine looked sharply at Enjolras at these words, and he paused, waiting for her to say something, but she remained silent; in fact she seemed relieved that he was now managing this new, and even more perplexing situation. He was just as lost as she was, but he heard himself speaking. "Yes. That's me. We meet up a few times a week; me and the boys, and your brother."

Azelma glanced over her shoulder. She dropped the hem of her shirt and now began toying with a lock of her frizzy hair. "My dad's not in," she finally said. "Nor my mum. I think you had better come inside." She opened the door a crack wider, just wide enough to wedge her narrow frame through, but she didn't invite them in by opening it all the way just yet. Holding onto the doorframe with one hand and the doorknob with the other, she leaned forward like some bizarre figurehead on a derelict ship, her neck craned upwards. She seemed to be searching for something just above the heads of Enjolras and Éponine. Then she leaned backwards, and finally stepped aside. She opened the door just wide enough to let her two unexpected (and seemingly still a little unwelcome) guests to squeeze through. The moment they had passed through the threshold, she pushed the door shut again.

Éponine was still standing rigidly; now she leaned against the shut door with her palms pressed to the wood, her breathing still heavy. Azelma had scuttled a ways down the entrance corridor and was now lurking in the doorway of what looked to be the bathroom. Enjolras was standing in the middle of the corridor somewhere between the two, and now he found himself wandering back to the door, where he put an arm around Éponine's shoulders. "Are you all right?" he asked her. "Is this too much, or …?"

She offered him a strained smile. "Yes, sir, I am quite fine; thank you for your concern. I've just had a bit of a shock, that's all, truly. And indeed, I am getting over it now. I shall be perfectly fine." She raised a hand to tuck away a stray lock of dark hair and rolled her shoulders back. "The only way to understand, I suppose, is to speak with my sister." Her eyes wandered towards Azelma as she said this.

Enjolras nodded haltingly. "All right, Éponine. If you're sure." He looked over at Azelma, waiting without complaint for them to finish, but toying at the collar of her T-shirt this time. All she did was nod in the direction of the end of the short corridor. A door was open ajar, and she escorted them to it, walking in a slow gait. It gave Enjolras the opportunity to quickly take in the his surroundings.

The ramshackle apartment reeked of cigarettes and alcohol, and was in a bad state even by East End standards. The floorboards made their protest known with every step that was taken, and paint was flaking off the walls in the corridor too. It was small and cramped, which only made the stink of the place all the stronger. There was a second hall table, scattered with papers, battered romance paperbacks, business cards, and Sticky Notes; all of them covered with a thick layer of dust.

Azelma pushed open the door to the room at the end of the corridor, and she led them past the threshold into a small American kitchen. On the far side of the room was a large window with the curtains drawn. Half of the room was taken up by the living room area, not that it was much of one: a few cheap armchairs and a love seat gathered horseshoe-style around a low coffee table, which was covered in cans of beer and used napkins. A half-eaten scone sat on one of the napkins. An old tube telly sitting on the floor was turned on but the volume was switched off.

Enjolras crossed the room quickly, and laid a hand on Azelma's shoulder. "D'you mind if we turn the telly off?" he asked her quietly. The sight of it might catch Éponine's attention, and television was something he wanted to avoid having to explain for a while, and especially at this precise moment. He expected Azelma to ask why, but instead, she calmly reached for the remote and pressed the Power switch. The image on the television screen flickered, then went dark. Not quite so early that Éponine didn't catch it: at the flicker she glanced over at it, but she didn't even seem curious about what it was for the moment.

Meanwhile Azelma dropped onto one of the armchairs, and she gestured that Éponine and Enjolras should do the same. The sofa and armchair were both musty and smelled especially strongly of cigarettes, but Enjolras said nothing as he sat down on one of them, and Éponine sat gingerly on the edge of the third armchair with her hands braced on her knees.

What followed was an awkward silence of at least a minute in which each person in the room expected one of its other two occupants to start the talking. In the end, Enjolras decided it would be up to him to start wringing some sense, and if not sense then at least moderate understanding, out of the current situation. He raked a hand through his curls and cleared his throat, as he always did before giving a speech. At once two near-matching pairs of dark eyes snapped his way. "So," he said. "Azelma. I … reckon we have a thing or two to explain to each other." No response. "Did you want me to go first, or … ?"

The girl shrugged. "I dunno. Don't much care. I just want to know what you're doing here, and … look, I want to know how you know about me having a sister. Or whatever." Her voice lowered. "I haven't told anybody I had a sister; not even Gav." She jerked her chin Éponine's way. "So, who _are_ you, then?"

Éponine ran her tongue over her teeth. "At the moment, Azelma," she said, "things being how they are, I do not think you would believe me. I have told you I am your sister, and from my point of view, it is the truth."

Azelma's face darkened. "That's not funny. How d'you mean, my _sister_?" She stood up suddenly and raised her voice, though it trembled, and to Enjolras it was evident this sort of defiance did not come naturally to her. "I want to know why you're here. Who sent you? How … how d'you know I used to have a sister?"

"Like we said," Enjolras forced his most patient tone. "It's a long bloody story."

She appraised him, and her eyes strayed to the living room door. Finally she crossed her arms again and sat back down. "If you say so. Fine, then. Tell it to me." She was trying for a haughty tone, but anyone could tell she was putting it on; her natural, meek little voice could be heard peeping through under the desperately woven façade.

It was Éponine who spoke next, quite unexpectedly, and Enjolras noted the way Azelma's eyes shot to her as soon as she opened her mouth. "My name is Éponine," she began slowly and softly, almost hollowly, and Azelma set her jaw grimly, but didn't say anything. Éponine gave a bitter little chuckle. "I expect that was the name of your sister, was it not? I do not know anything of that. I am not going to tell you that your elder sister is in fact still alive, and now here I am returned to you, for it is not the truth. At least not to my understanding.

"From your point of view, it would seem, your sister _died_; in this world I am dead, but indeed it is quite … _different_ for me … "

She told her same story, in that same flat, almost emotionless tone, and Azelma listened. Enjolras knew the tale so well by now he just about could have recited it himself, and he found himself slipping out of the recounting of the story a moment — just a moment, not long enough to let his mind wander — to more closely observe Azelma.

It was plain to Enjolras that the poor kid was tangled in the middle of whatever dodgy dealings her parents — Éponine's parents? — were involved in. And as she listened to Éponine, her face a neutral mask, she was restless. She was fidgeting, fidgeting, her hands ever fidgeting with whatever was in reach: the hem of her shirt, her collar, her hair, a bit of running thread on the arm of her seat. And even while she was clearly paying keen attention to Éponine, her eyes darted this way and that, a nervous little mouse in anticipation of a cat. Sometimes, during Éponine's account Azelma would whisper things to herself in the way one did when listening to a tale; the odd "blimey" or shake of the head as a word passed her lips in such a quiet breath he couldn't decipher it.

And then, back to the waking world.

Éponine was at this point briefly recounting how she had met with Gavroche, who had not known her, and before long she was finished. Her eyes wandered down to her hands, still braced on her knees. "And that," she said softly, "is that. That is my tale, mad though it may sound." She looked back up, as if expecting Azelma to answer, but when she didn't she added with a dry laugh, "Oh, I am no closer to understanding the impossibility of this situation than anyone. I am lost, Azelma, and confused, and afraid, and … and that is why Enjolras wanted me to come to you."

Azelma released a short laugh of her own. "I can't do anything more'n you. I … well, let's put it this way. I dunno what to say, all right? I don't know what to think besides _bloody blinkin' hell. _You can't just … look, it's sort of a lot to take in, all right? You can't just … _expect me_ to know what to do."

"We don't," Enjolras cut in. "We just … wanted to see if we could find Éponine's family." Even as he said it, it sounded strange, and Azelma sighed. "Listen, love," he now told the scrawny ginger girl, "I don't know what I'm doing, all right? I'm just trying to help, and make sense of things."

She shrugged. "Yeah, well. Look, I just, I just really don't know what to do, or how I can help. Frankly this is freaking me out a little. I'm sorry, but this is just … you have her name; you _know_ about me … " She shook her head. "My sister's _dead_," Azelma said again, weakly this time.

Enjolras leaned forward a little. "When did she die?" he enquired. "If you don't mind my asking, that is."

Another shrug. "Years ago." She paused to think. "Seven. Seven years."

"Seven years … " Enjolras murmured, then turned on Éponine. "Éponine, how old would you have been seven years ago?"

"Hmm … well, I would have been ten." Éponine slumped backwards onto the armchair. "But … if I died in this world seven years ago, or some echo of mine; or whatever the term may be — I'm afraid I don't really know what it means, or what it may be called, if I once somehow existed in this world myself — at the age of ten, that would mean I died still a child."

"Drunk driver," Azelma confirmed tonelessly with a nod. "Hit-and-run."

Éponine looked to Enjolras with a questioning face. _Later_, he mouthed — he really didn't have the mind for offering any explanations at the moment, albeit one that would really take very little explanation — and she nodded once. The attention turned back to Azelma. "So, your sister died, and …?"

Her eyes made one quick darting scan of the room. "And, what? What happens when your sister dies? You have a funeral, the neighbours offer their condolences and come, you grieve, and life goes on." She shrugged. "Well, not long after, we all moved to London."

"From where?" Éponine asked. "In my world, we came from a little village outside Paris called Montfermeil, and Papa ran — "

"A pub?" Azelma asked grimly. "Yeah, blimey, that's right. After my sister died, we moved from this town in the south, couple hours outta London, called Weymouth."

Enjolras clicked his fingers. "Aha! And _that's_ the trace of accent I couldn't place."

Azelma smiled a little despite herself. "Yeah, that's it. We have strong bleedin' accents down in Weymouth, we have. I've lost most of mine, though. You ought to hear Mum and Dad." Éponine and Enjolras both gave her looks that plainly asked for more information. Reluctantly, and unsure what forces were motivating her to speak at all (if only _Dad_ knew what she was up to), Azelma elaborated:

"Right, yes, Weymouth. It's where I lived 'til I was nine or so. It's a small place, seaside town," she added for Éponine's benefit. "And Dad ran this pub — more of an inn, really; it had rooms and meals and everything, but mostly folk went to drink — called _The French Sergeant_. Odd name, maybe, but it had something to do with some old battle against the French he was always interested in."

Éponine interrupted. "Waterloo."

Azelma raised her eyes, a sombre expression on her face. "Yes," she said. It was a whisper. She was clearly chilled to the marrow. "Dad didn't have much of an education, never even finished secondary. He didn't like it, he said, simple as. He didn't mind Accounting, actually; cos Dad's good with numbers, but he never studied it past tenth year. And he hated History as much as everything else, 'cept he liked reading about that battle for God-knows-why. Had books on it and everything," she continued, "and he was always reading to me and my sister out of them."

Suddenly she stood. "I want you to leave," she said. A beat. "Now." Another. "Please."

Éponine stood slowly, glanced at Enjolras as if seeking his leave, and swiftly he nodded, standing too. "All right. All right, if … if that's what you want." He began making his way out the room and to the front door, but Azelma beat him to it, practically throwing it open. She gestured aggressively towards the stairwell.

"I think you'd better leave now," she said. Voice shaking just so.

Enjolras nodded at her in reassurance. "Yeah," he said again, "I think we better had."

…

While Enjolras and Éponine were on their way to meet the bus in Bloomsbury, Cosette was swinging the strap of her backpack over one shoulder and rushing out the door of her flat in Chelsea. As she was passing by the kitchen, a call gave her cause to stop, stumble, and take a few steps backwards. "Hoy!"

She poked her head into the room. "Yeah?"

Her father was leaning against the counter with a kettle on the stove, reading that morning's _Independent_. Setting it down next to him, he waved her into the room, and Cosette took another step back to hover in the doorway. "Where are you off to this bright and early?" Papa asked her.

"Papa, it's 10.30."

He glanced at the clock above the stove and raised an eyebrow, seemingly startled by the news. "So it is. Well, you haven't answered the question yet. Where are you off to?"

"The library," Cosette replied, now leaning against the doorframe. "I wanted to see if I could find out anything else about the June Rebellion."

"Ohh. That's a good idea. There might be more there than on the Internet, I reckon was your line of thinking?" When Cosette nodded once in affirmation, he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, Cosette's usual and favoured seat by the window. "Well, you haven't had breakfast yet, so _you're_ not going out until you have."

Cosette groaned. "Oh, Papa, I'm not hungry. And anyway, I can always get a bite while I'm out." When one look made it obvious her father was not going to relent, she sighed. "Oh, all right then. Toss me an apple."

He selected one from the fruit bowl and tossed it her way; in one swift move she caught it in her right hand. "Thanks Papa bye!" she said in one eager breath, blew him a kiss and a wave, and hurried out the door.

The apple she ate on the walk to the library, munching it contentedly and tossing the core, stripped of all its juicy-sweet white meat, into a litter basket as she passed one. It was barely a five-minute walk to the local library, and this was a contributing reason to the fact that it happened to be one of Cosette's most frequented places in London. The local library might have been smaller than the ones in town, but it was located in a very nice old building, and had rows upon rows of shelves; one could spend a week reading just the titles on the spines.

However, the broad selection meant that Cosette was not altogether sure where to start. She wound up striding over to the service desk, where some uni-aged kid in a Cambridge jumper was typing away at a computer, the screen reflected on the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. He looked up as Cosette approached, his face the picture of boredom, but pasted on a smile. "Hello!" he said in an unrefined posh accent. "Can I help you?" Cosette did not fail to miss the way his eyes quickly skirted her up and down.

"Hi." She leaned forwards a little on the desk. "Yeah, you can. Hence my being here at the service desk. I was looking for, ah … " Here she trailed off, suddenly unsure what it was she was looking for. She somehow doubted there were any books exclusively on this June Rebellion, seeing how little-known it was. "Looking for … a history book on, ah, the … aftermath of the French Revolution," she finally said.

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Broad topic. Let's see … " Pink tongue slipping out between his teeth, he typed a few commands into the computer, murmuring to himself. At last he looked up. "Well, we've got quite a few, mind, but how's this one sound to you: _A Detailed History of Post-Revolutionary France to 1950_? Published 1982."

She beamed at him. "That'd be brill, thanks."

The boy shot to his feet so quickly he knocked his chair over. He stooped to pick it up and smoothed out his sweater. "I'll show you where it is," he said importantly, and Cosette thanked him again in friendly tones. _Ah, poor kid_.

The History section was on the first floor, comprising the vast majority of it, with a smaller Philosophy section against one wall. The boy ran his fingers along the spines of the books as he scoured the aisles, a lightly amused Cosette trailing behind. Before long, the volume was found, with a light-hearted "Eureka!" from the boy as he snatched a very fat hardcover volume off the shelf and handed it to her.

"Thanks," Cosette said, smiling at him kindly.

"So," said the boy, "what's it for? Summer essay?"

"General interest," she replied mildly, and shrugged, hugging the huge tome to her chest. She really was feeling sorry for the boy, until he squared his shoulders and smoothed his hair with the newly recovered arrogant confidence of a posh Cambridge boy. "So," said Cosette, nodding at his jumper. "Cambridge kid, are you?"

"I just finished my first year," he answered with a proud little smirk. "Law."

"Oh, that's nice," she said, patting her book. "My boyfriend takes Law here at UCL." And with that, she bid him a cheerful goodbye, and went to find a comfortable place to sit.

…

Cosette had prepared herself to find no results on the June Rebellion, so it was a pleasant surprise for her, then, when, upon searching the index, she found a reference for the _June Rebellion of 1832_ on page 271. Eagerly, she flipped to it.

The section on the June Rebellion was small — scarcely a page and a bit — and wasn't even accompanied with a picture, but the fact that it was there was enough. Cosette kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her, snuggling deep into the folds of the armchair she'd taken, her favoured position for reading. She glanced upwards a moment, then turned her attention to the text.

The first couple of paragraphs told her what she already knew, more or less, in a bit more detail. In Paris in the late morning of 5 June, 1832, a group of two dozen or so armed students hosted an enormous rally at the funeral of General Lamarque in attempt to reverse the establishment of King Louis-Philippe's 1830 July Monarchy, and set up barricades in the streets; they were all killed by the French military at dawn on 7 June. All the same she soaked in the information, the gears in her mind turning, cogs clicking.

But there was something else, too, towards the bottom of the entry. It was a short eyewitness account of the events of the final battle of the June Rebellion, translated from the French. Cosette glanced up a moment, over her shoulder, then with a deep breath she read:

_'Never shall I forget the events of the early hours of 7 June 1832. What I saw that day shall haunt me to the end of my life. I was one of many living in the apartments above the shops, overlooking the barricades. I witnessed an atrocity, violence beyond imagining. _

'_When the barricades were first being set up, a little before noon on 5 June, quite literally below my kitchen window, several families, including my own, threw down what old furniture we could spare and the boys of the barricade, for verily just boys they were, were most grateful. When there was no fighting going on, the women and I would go down and give the students a bit of food: soup and crust and wine, and we broke bread with them. There had been a couple of small battles, too, but from these the students seemed to emerge mostly victorious, losing only one life on their side on the first two days. We watched from our windows as they discovered and bound a spy, and all of us were quietly hoping those lads really would be victorious in the long run, and would afterwards be heralded and recognised as the heroes they were_.

'_We heard the shouting just before dawn, and it disturbed the sleep of my husband and I. We went to the window to look, and saw that many of our neighbours were looking as well. We watched as to our shocked horror two soldiers shot and killed a defenceless child, and then the fighting began. The soldiers beat them, rained bullets down on those students mercilessly, and ran them through with their bayonets. The streets were soon running with blood, until the very cracks between the cobblestones had turned bright scarlet. And such shouts and sobs and cries of agony! The sounds of the fighting woke my young daughter, then just seven years of age, and I still remember the way she ran to the window to see what was happening outside. My husband tugged her away, and the three of us huddled in our bedroom with the shutters tightly closed and the curtains drawn; I put my hands over my daughter's ears and prayed to the good Lord for the souls of those caught in the brutality of the battle below._

'_And what chills me most of all is my own guilt. None of us opened our doors to help those students that were cowering behind the barricade, nor aided the wounded. We left them to die when we could have saved the lives of at least half those schoolboys who had never even held a gun before. Never shall I forgive myself, and I wonder what the case is with my neighbours, if their nightmares haunted them long after the fighting was done, if still their sleep is disturbed by the sounds of gunfire and the sight of blood_.'

There the section on the June Rebellion ended. A chill ran down Cosette's own spine.

She dropped the book, like it burned her.

…

Éponine didn't utter a word the first bus ride back. Enjolras tried speaking with her, at first, but she either didn't hear him, lost to her thoughts, or else she didn't want to speak with him.

He couldn't very well blame her.

So that first bus ride was spent in silence, Éponine with her eyes tightly shut, sucking in deep breaths; Enjolras with his chin in his hand and his worn-out mind reeling. He was so lost in his thoughts he almost missed the announcement for their stop, and he quickly tapped Éponine on the shoulder. She jumped, then turned her gaze on him, a hollowness in her eyes. Her brow furrowed; she shut her eyes and shook her head, and the blank expression cleared into one of put-on politeness. "This is our stop," Enjolras told her when she went on merely staring at him, and she gave one tiny nod and followed him down the stairs. They waited for less than a minute for the bus to stop, and when it finally did and the doors folded open, Éponine very nearly leapt off.

More waiting. For the next bus to arrive. It came, eventually. To Éponine's vast discomfort, there were no vacant seats up top on the packed bus, and they had to sit downstairs. She took a window seat again, resting her forehead against the glass with her hands clutched to her stomach.

More waiting. For the bus to reach their stop. It did, finally. Éponine was so wobbly (and looking a little pale to Enjolras' eyes) that she had to lean on him a little to dismount lest her legs buckle under her.

Éponine gently brushed him off once they were standing on solid ground; but she staggered a little, her chest heaving, seemingly trying to suck in all the clean air she could. One shaky hand groped for support again. Enjolras reached for her, but she batted his arm away and found a pole.

"Éponine?" he asked, coming over to her again. "Éponine. Are you all right?"

In response, she gagged several times, violently, her narrow shoulders shaking. Then she grabbed at her stomach again with her free hand, and vomited all over the sidewalk.

…

"I'm sorry," he told her as they walked back to his flat, Éponine a little shaky but the colour returning to her face. "It's all right, Éponine, that's just motion sickness. Motion sickness and nerves," he added. "It's natural. I guess you … " he trailed off, trying to find the right words, no longer quite sure where he sat in the matter. At last he found his voice. "Well, if you're not used to riding in buses then this was to be expected." There was no answer, and Enjolras found he was babbling. "I should have warned you beforehand."

"It's quite all right, sir," Éponine cut in, her voice stronger than he'd expected. "I felt ill before, but now that it has all come back up I am feeling much better. I should think that I shall be absolutely fine in a few minutes." She flashed him a tight-lipped smile.

Enjolras nodded, uncertain. "Well, if you're sure … "

"I am," said Éponine pointedly, and the rest of the walk, too, was spent in silence.

Upon arrival at his flat, Enjolras let Éponine clean herself up and asked her if she wanted to change clothes. She was sheepish upon realising that she'd dirtied Cosette's dress, and offered to clean it herself, but he assured her that it was fine, really it was; he could wash it himself. In the modern day he had … _means_ of doing so without difficulty.

The moment she shut herself up in the lav, Enjolras collapsed onto the sofa. He waited until he heard the sound of running water, and then every curse his weary mind could spin out was uttered, quite loudly. Their unusual encounter with Azelma Jondrette played back to him. Needless to say, the entire affair left Enjolras feeling even more lost and clueless than before, if that were possible.

And bloody hell, it was only 13.30.

Up 'til now, it had been his general assumption that Éponine had just hit her head, that she _thought_ she came from the 19th century. He'd never puzzled out how it was she knew all about him and his friends; couldn't begin to guess how it was she'd shown no signs of head trauma in Combeferre's examination; didn't understand her seemingly magically healed bullet wound. But Enjolras was such a logical bloke, and he knew that people didn't die in the 19th century and wake up in the 21st. He knew such phenomena were bound to science fiction stories. He'd been convinced that if he could find Éponine's family, things would start to look up, start to make sense.

But now this.

Enjolras got up off the sofa. "Bloody hell," he said, and stalking across the living room, took out his anger on one of the table legs.

It was his toe that paid the price.

As he hopped about like an idiot, nursing his throbbing toe, Éponine emerged from the lav in a fresh dress of Cosette's. She cocked her head in curiosity a moment at the sight of Enjolras jumping up and down on one foot, causing him to flush a brilliant shade of scarlet, but then looked politely away and dropped onto the sofa herself, clearly just as exhausted as Enjolras, both mentally and physically.

The pain in his stubbed toe now faded to little more than a dull soreness that would surely pass in the next minute, Enjolras joined Éponine on the sofa. "Éponine — " he began haltingly.

She glanced over at him, a lock of ebony hair in one eye. She let it hang there and smiled softly. "Yes, sir, I am _fine_, if that's what you were going to ask. Really, I implore you to stop fussing so over me. Your kindness is most welcome and thanked, but your worry is unnecessary."

Enjolras nodded. "Today was … er … " Words failed him.

"Yes," was all Éponine said with a nod, understanding perfectly. She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap.

"Éponine," he heard himself saying, "listen, love. Did you want to … I dunno … _talk_ about it, or … ?"

"Perhaps later," Éponine said quietly without looking at him.

Enjolras was unsure of what else to say, so he let the silence fall back into place between them, and the room was soon swollen with it.

He tried very hard to think, but found his mind to be thick and sluggish, like he'd had a couple too many beers on a night at the Musain with the boys. Finally he gave up and excused himself to his bedroom — his "chambers" as Éponine called them — for a bit of peace and distraction. He dug his old Discman out from under a pile of socks and found his headphones on his desk, the least cluttered flat surface in the room. He popped in some country album Jehan had given him for his birthdays months ago and listened to the whole thing without thinking overly much, and it left him feeling a little better.

He wound up listening to a couple other albums, and when that was done a little over three full hours had passed. Enjolras fished his mobile out of his pocket and considered ringing Combeferre, but finally decided against it. Before anything, he wanted to talk to Éponine about the matter. His Missed Calls icon was flashing, and he found out that Cosette had tried ringing him at some point. Curious; while he and Cosette were perfectly friendly with each other, they weren't so close that they exchanged calls and text messages. Enjolras rang her back, but her mobile was dead, so he returned his phone to his pocket and consulted his watch.

Now it was creeping up near 17.00. It was early for supper, but he didn't know what else to do, so he emerged from his room, and found Éponine on the balcony. She was seated on the railing, balanced precariously with her legs dangling over the street and her hands in her lap. She turned around when she heard him open the door, and swung her legs back over the railing. "Hello, sir," she greeted him calmly.

"Hullo, Éponine." Enjolras reached out a hand to help her out, but she scoffed a little and hopped down herself with perfect ease. His sheepish hand returned to his pocket. "Hey, are you hungry?"

She considered. "I think I might be, a little bit. You must forgive me, but it is hard for me to tell. So much has happened today, in the space of just a few hours."

"True, that. Well, anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite? We could walk down to the Musain, if you want. Frankly, I'm starved." This last statement was a lie, but if it registered in his eyes (Enjolras was something of an inexperienced liar) then Éponine ignored it. Instead, she nodded slowly.

"Yes … that would be lovely."

Another walk was spent in silence. At the Musain, their orders were taken by a girl who had no qualms in showing the fact that she was bored half to death, and was much irked by having to take yet _another_ order. Enjolras had never seen her before, but he ordered pea soup as politely as possible, and Éponine asked for the same thing.

They didn't talk much as they ate, either. Again Enjolras asked Éponine if she wanted to discuss things, but all she did was shake her head. "Perhaps later," she said again. Besides that, the only comment she made was on the quality of the soup. "It's excellent. Do you know how long I have yearned for a bowl of hot and hearty soup, sir?" It was a rhetorical question, Enjolras discovered, because no sooner had the words left her lips then did she let out a dry chuckle. "A very long time."

It was as Enjolras was waiting for their waitress to bring the bill — neither he nor Éponine wanted dessert — that Éponine finally spoke up. "Well, sir, what do you make of it?" she asked, startling Enjolras with her suddenness.

"Hey?" he enquired.

"What do you make of it?" she repeated, then hesitated. "That is to say, sir … the ways things are, are _looking_ right now. The state of it all. The … the … oh, I suppose you know what I mean."

Enjolras most certainly did. What he didn't know was how to answer her question. He wasn't sure he had one. "Weeell … " he said, dragging the vowel out. Finally he settled for honesty. "At the moment? Sorry, but I dunno what I think, Éponine."

She laughed. "It is quite all right, sir. Neither do I!"

…

At night, Éponine lay on her side in her bed, her knees hugged to her chest. The light was out and the curtains drawn, but a slice of moonlight cut through into the room, illuminating it just so. From her position on the bed, she could see dust particles dancing in the thin slab of silvery light. She watched them, transfixed as a child.

She was beyond exhausted, but she found it difficult to nod off. She was more confused and frightened than ever, and Enjolras' constant kindness towards her was beginning to leave her feeling altogether guilty. A boy who, from his point of view, did not know her, after all, was offering her lodging in his home, feeding her, and paying for all kinds of comforts for her out of his own pocket. She was reminded of the times when things at home had been especially bad, and Marius, catching her hurrying from the house to take refuge in an alleyway, had calmly allowed her to sleep the night in his own bed. She'd been grateful and swoony, and hadn't had any means of paying him back. She had no way to pay Enjolras back, either.

Or did she?

Éponine sat bolt upright in bed, kicking off the sheets with a sudden spurt of realisation. In the living room, she could hear Enjolras pacing; he was still awake. She just about burst from the bedroom, nearly tripping over the fabric of Enjolras' pyjamas. Her exit was not a quiet one, and it caught Enjolras' attention in his pacing.

"Éponine. Are you okay?" he queried.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, not minding the fact that her outburst was startling him. "Sir, do you remember the trench coat I was wearing?" He nodded. "Did you keep it? Where might I find it?"

Enjolras gave her a puzzled look. "It's over here," he said, and led her over to the coat rack by the entrance, where her trench coat had been hanging the whole time without her noticing. Éponine couldn't help but wonder what he had done with the rest of her clothes, which had stunk terribly. Only the coat, swapped for her warmest shawl with a street boy, hadn't reeked so badly, though it did look as if it had been dragged through the mud one too many times.

But scarcely noticing Enjolras' perplexed expression, Éponine plunged a hand into the deep right pocket of the trench coat and felt around. "You have been so kind to me," she chattered eagerly as her hand closed around the object she'd been seeking, "and I was feeling _ever_ so guilty about the fact I could do nothing in return. Oh, but then I remembered that mere hours before I was shot, I was … asked to deliver a letter, and paid quite nicely by the receiver. And I still have the coin." Now she approached Enjolras with her fist clasped around it. "I don't suppose French money will be much good here in England, but perhaps you might be able to exchange it at the bank?"

When she was standing directly in front of him, she opened her palm.

Wordlessly, Enjolras took the coin from Éponine's hand — and blanched.

Because the coin's value was marked as being one Franc, and the processing date on its remarkably shiny surface was 1830.


	10. Chapter 10

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Ten

…

The coin sat in Enjolras' open palm, catching the lamplight and glinting at him as if in mockery. Enjolras gaped at it while Éponine merely stared at him in confusion. It seemed an age before he found his voice. He looked down at the small thing, then back at Éponine. Blue eyes met dark brown. "Éponine," he said in a low voice. "Éponine, where did you get this coin?"

Well, he didn't know what else to say.

She stiffened just so, eyes flashing. "I did not steal it, if that is what you are asking."

Enjolras was, for his part, taken aback by such a suggestion. "It … no, I mean — that is, I never meant — Éponine," he finally said, "no one is accusing you of stealing anything. Honest. It's just, I'm a bit surprised you have this coin, is all. That you … _could_ have this coin. Because … " It was obvious that Éponine took his comment to imply the gap in social status between them, and she now eyed him darkly but without comment.

"I did not steal it, sir," Éponine repeated stubbornly. "Truly."

He laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I didn't think you had, Éponine," Enjolras said in the gentlest tone he knew. "Honestly. I just … well, it surprised me that you had it because, because it's a really old coin."

Éponine shrugged. "Not really," she said. "Perhaps by your standards, but not by mine." She did not seem to recognise the fact that the gears in Enjolras' head were spinning faster than they ever had before, because Enjolras knew this was impossible. Did she even know that up 'til today he hadn't seriously considered the possibility that Éponine had actually come from the early 19th century, that only today he had started to confusedly consider the prospect that there was a grain of truth to the impossible tale? Then she shrugged again. "Might you not be able to exchange it? I do not know how much worth a Franc is in England, but to me it was a fair bit of money, sir. I earned it," she added.

Enjolras wanted to hold the coin up to the light to really examine it, but for fear of further offending Éponine it remained in his hand. "I-I don't know," he stammered. "See, in France they don't use Francs as a currency anymore."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh! Oh, don't they? But whyever not? Francs were a perfectly good currency!" She shook her head. "Well, what currency is in use now, then? I realise that here in England you still use the pound, sir, just as your country did in my time. They told us so at school," she added importantly.

"They use what's called the Euro," Enjolras explained uncertainly. "Er. I think that came about at the beginning of the century — yeah, 2002, I think — and basically it's a currency used in most of the countries of Europe. No more Francs."

"_Oh_." Éponine looked disappointed. "Well, I hope it is of some worth to you, at least, sir."

_It should be_, _if it's real_. Enjolras finally set the coin on the coffee table and collapsed onto the sofa. Éponine joined him. Despite everything, it seemed her curiosity had been piqued yet again, and she asked, timidly at first, but with confidence building into her tone with each word, "So … so this _Euro_ is used across all of Europe, you say? How curious, sir!"

"Most countries," Enjolras confirmed.

"But I have never heard of such a thing. Many countries using the same currency as one. In most of Europe. So … France, and the Netherlands, and Prussia, and … and Spain, and Portugal, and the Swiss Confederation … " Éponine had learned the names of all the countries of Europe in Geography class, back when she had attended school, and when her family had gone to Paris, she had held on very tightly to everything she could remember. Her education was something that made her feel as though she had a little class, an imagined hope that she was perhaps just a little better than the very poorest and most wretched, pitiable beggars of San Michel.

Éponine did not like being pitied.

To her surprise, however, Enjolras gave a small chuckle. "No," he said. "Not Switzerland." He leaned back into the sofa, and Éponine tucked her legs under her for a more comfortable position. She looked down at her hands, and they stayed that way in contemplative silence for a long while — out of the corner of her eye Éponine could see Enjolras picking up and absently stroking the coin — until she found herself failing to hide a mighty yawn. She blushed at her ill manners.

"Forgive me, sir," she said, "I don't know how I could have — "

He cut her off. "It's okay, Éponine. Really." Enjolras laid a hand over one of her own. "Why don't you get some sleep, love, and tomorrow I'll, er, see what I can do with this coin."

Another little yawn escaped her, this one more bordering on a sigh of simple contentment. Éponine got to her feet and stretched, then folded her arms across her chest. "Very well. Perhaps I shall get some rest. And … thank you, sir. Again. For everything."

…

Porridge again.

There were only two envelopes left, and as Enjolras didn't fancy letting them expire nor had anything else to offer, this made their breakfast again that morning. And tea, of course. The day's breakfast boded very well with Éponine, who thanked him politely and profusely as she sat down to join him at the table — again, standing behind her chair until Enjolras awkwardly gestured she sit, too.

Éponine sat and ate the porridge without saying much besides, "It's very good; thank, you sir," again. And Enjolras nodded awkwardly. They were not ten minutes into breakfast when, to Enjolras' surprise, there came a rapping at the door.

Enjolras and Éponine shared a puzzled look through some unspoken connection and he rose to his feet, crossed the living room, and opened the door. He did not know who it was he'd been expecting to see at his doorstep, really, seeing as he gave his mates _strict orders_ not to come by until at least 11.00, but he was definitely surprised to see there, of all people, Cosette.

She was wearing a pair of shorts and a pastel-coloured tank top and Mephisto sandals; a backpack was slung over one slight shoulder; her long blonde hair was done up in two braids; but for all her pretty, girlish appearances, Cosette, with her hands on her hips and a stormy expression on her face, was proving herself capable of being quite terrifying. Her authority reminded him of Musichetta's, and no-one in their right mind crossed Musichetta. Enjolras withered a bit. Cosette released a long-suffering sigh.

"I've rung you," she said pointedly. "More than ten times. _Ten times_, Enjolras."

"Oh," he replied, rather meekly. "Well, I did try to ring you one time but your mobile was dead — "

"One time," said Cosette, holding up her index finger for emphasis. "Didn't it occur to you that it might be a bit important?" She sighed heavily again, but her arms dropped to her side. "Ah, well. Never mind. I'm here now. Can I come in?" She gestured at the apartment behind Enjolras, and the law student stepped aside to let her through. Cosette spied Éponine, who was seated stiffly at the table, and walked over to her with a wave and a greeting much more chipper than the one Enjolras had received. "Hullo, Éponine!"

As Enjolras was shutting the door and returning to the table, Éponine bowed her head at Cosette and gave a stiff greeting to the blonde. "Good day. How do you do?"

Cosette perched herself on the back of the sofa, leaning against it and shrugged. Again she seemed taken aback by the cool reception she was receiving from Éponine. "All right. You?"

Éponine didn't even answer, just took a long sip of tea, leaving it up to Enjolras to clap his hands together once, awkwardly. "Right, then," he said loudly, causing two pairs of eyes to shoot over to him. "Cosette, did you want some breakfast?"

She shook her head. "Nah, thanks. I already had something at home." Then she eyed the still slightly-steaming mugs on the table. "Wouldn't say no to a cuppa, though." Enjolras stepped over to the kitchen, and Cosette followed, either trying to avoid Éponine or trying to get a word with him in private. Or some combination of the two, more likely.

While Enjolras slid her a mug, Cosette leaned against the counter with her arms crossed over her chest. She released a small _hmm_ of disapproval as Enjolras produced a teabag from the cupboard for her and dropped it into her mug, but she didn't say anything. It wasn't until the kettle was on that Enjolras and Cosette found themselves saying in sync, "Well, I've got news."

Cosette giggled a little and gestured. "You first. What I've got to share I want to talk to Éponine about."

"Right." Enjolras got the sugar out, then turned back to face Cosette. He thrust his hand into his jeans pocket, feeling for the coin Éponine had given him the night before. When his fingers closed around its cool surface, he began, "Listen. So, I've been accommodating Éponine, yeah? And she's been saying that she wishes she had a way to pay me back for 'all my kindness'."

"All right." The kettle began to whistle. Enjolras reached for it, but Cosette got there first, calmly taking it off the burner and pouring the boiling water into her mug. She then took one spoonful of sugar from the sugar bowl and took a small sip of tea. "Hmm, not bad … " she murmured to herself, then turned her attention back to Enjolras. "Right, sorry. You were saying?"

Enjolras cleared his throat. "So, then she gives me this coin; says she got it from ... some delivery she made. And I kid you not, Cosette — it's an old French Franc."

Cosette raised her eyebrows, and Enjolras passed her the coin. Wordlessly, she took it, setting her tea mug down, and studied it. Her face was grave. When she looked up at last, her voice, already low, was barely a whisper. "It's dated 1830."

"I know … "

"It's dated 1830 and it looks new." Cosette's eyes were now very wide. "Enjolras, how can it be from nearly two hundred years ago and look brand-new?" Her voice was beginning to quake, and Enjolras squeezed her shoulder.

"Believe me, love, that's what I'm trying to figure out." Cosette nodded, and handed the coin back to him, then retrieved her mug and began to sip from it again. "I'm going to visit a coin dealer's, if I can." Last night, he'd done a search for coin dealers in the area and had found one that looked like it would suit his purposes.

She nodded. "That's a good idea." Then she glanced towards the corridor. "You know, Éponine will be wondering where we've got to by now. After all, tea doesn't take long, and she probably heard the kettle." Then, without another word, she walked out of the kitchen and made for the living room, mug in hand. "Sorry about that, Éponine!" Enjolras heard her call breezily, but there wasn't any response.

He dallied a little, fingering the coin, then with a sigh, he dropped it into his pocket and joined the girls at the table. What he saw was something of a curiosity: Éponine, her head bowed, eating her porridge and quite blatantly ignoring a now awkward Cosette's attempts to make friendly conversation. When she saw him coming into the room, Cosette looked up with a helpless expression on her face. _What am I supposed to do?_ she mouthed.

_How should I know what's going on?_ he mouthed back, but judging by the look of puzzlement that passed over Cosette's face, she hadn't been able to read his lips effectively. With a shrug of his shoulders, Enjolras joined the girls at the table, and Éponine was suddenly sitting up with her spine ramrod straight. She gave him a quick polite smile before her dark eyes wandered over to Cosette, and again, that same strange coolness passed through them. This left Enjolras having to yet again clap his hands together and attempt to get things going.

Not that he'd been doing that good a job of it all so far. It was becoming apparent that effectively dealing with Éponine and dealing with the boys required two very different approaches.

Oh, well. He was trying. And at least she seemed to genuinely like him.

"So," Enjolras heard himself saying. "Éponine, you've, er, already met Cosette a couple times."

Éponine looked up from the last of her porridge. "I have," she said without so much as glancing at the blonde in question.

"And, she's popped by. Wants to help in figuring this whole mess out." Enjolras glanced over at Cosette, who was eyeing Éponine warily. He gestured at her vaguely, and in a bit of a halting tone, Cosette began.

"Éponine," she said slowly, "this … barricade, this rebellion you were at … did it have anything to do with someone called General Lamarque?"

Éponine's cool expression darkened. "Yes. Indeed."

"And … the barricades, they would've gone up around the 5th of June, yeah? The 5th of June, 1832?"

A small nod. "I suppose that might be right."

Cosette looked from Enjolras to Éponine, then sipped her tea a little. She sighed. "Éponine, can you pay super-close attention for a moment? Sorry, it's just that what I have to tell you is pretty important. It might help to find out what's going on, okay?" On the surface, her tone was at once gentle and patient, but Enjolras detected something like desperation underneath it, and he understood why. Neither of them understood Éponine's obvious hatred of Cosette, and it was bound to make the blonde uneasy, especially since she wanted so badly to help, and help make sense of things. Enjolras would have asked Éponine herself if only he weren't afraid that such probing might make her wary of him.

Éponine, for her part, was conflicted. Heavily so.

She did _not_ want to spend anymore time with the Lark, was in fact quite content to avoid her altogether. She did not think there was a person on Earth she hated in quite the same way as she did Cosette. Oh, she loathed her mother and father, and the other members of the Patron-Minette; she loathed the police officers in the city; and by God did she loathe Montparnasse. But her hatred for Cosette was entirely different, a sort of hatred Éponine had never felt to another human being before, not even that Adèle from school (back when she'd gone to school).

Her feelings towards Cosette were a cocktail of sour emotions. Envy, scorn, anger, a twisted sort of pity left over from their childhood together, and most of all, disgust. In Éponine's eyes, here came a girl who had been the most lamentable thing in Montfermeil, and then had been taken away by a complete stranger and indulged beyond belief. And through it all, Cosette had maintained a simpering sweetness and humility, and to top it off, striking beauty. The Lark's kindness towards her in this world made her hate her all the more.

"Éponine?" That sickeningly _sweet_ and _gentle_ voice snapped her from her reverie, and she looked up at the Lark, just long enough to acknowledge she'd heard, then turned her attention to the tea.

Cosette was chewing at her inner cheek. "Éponine," she said, "listen, please? I was doing some research at the library, about that revolution. I reckoned that if I knew a bit more about it, I might … be able to help. And … I did … find something." She paused, as if waiting for Éponine to acknowledge she'd spoken. Éponine did not allow her the satisfaction, and the Lark continued. "The revolution you were in has come to be known as the June Rebellion. It really was a historical event."

This time, unable to control herself, Éponine looked up, her eyes flashing. She barely managed to maintain her polite speech. "Oh, that's very nice! Why, yes, of _course_ it was. Those events really did happen. I'm sure I did not make them up on a whim, if that is what you were implying, which indeed, you seemed to be."

Cosette looked taken aback. "Oh. Oh, God, Éponine, no. I wasn't implying anything of the sort … " Éponine caught her looking to Enjolras for help, but when none was offered right away (much to Éponine's smugness), the Lark turned back to her. "I just meant that … well … it can be read about." A pause. "Just not a whole lot."

"Whatever do you mean?" asked Éponine acidly.

"I mean … " — the Lark's eyes flicked over to Enjolras again — " … I mean that it wasn't really — _recorded_ very much. In fact, it's an almost forgotten chapter of history. And I was wondering if I could talk to you about it." Another pause. Éponine wished she would stop pausing and hesitating. She wished the Lark would say whatever it was she had to say and then leave, let them both alone. Now Cosette looked for a third time to Enjolras. "Enjolras? I'm … really sorry, don't mean to be rude, but I was wondering if maybe I could talk to Éponine about this alone?"

"_Pardon me_?" Éponine blurted.

Cosette had the decency to look sheepish. "Only if it's all right with you, of course," she hastened to say.

Now it was Éponine's turn to look to Enjolras for salvation, to her surprise, he stood up, his porridge bowl being empty and his mug drained. For a moment Éponine thought — hoped — that he was merely rising to deposit his dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, which was starting to pile up, not that she would be so forward as to mention his disorderliness — but then he spoke. His words to her were a betrayal, an iron fist to the heart, and she didn't care just how petty her injured feelings might be.

"Actually," he said, "there was this, er, thing I'd been meaning to tend to. And y'know, I should … probably get to that soon. ASAP." (Whatever that meant). "Éponine, maybe if it's okay with you, I could run and do it while you stayed here with Cosette."

"Oh! Oh, would you be needing any aid at all, sir? If I may be so forward, but if you'd prefer I accompany you … ?"

"I'm all right, Éponine, thanks," said Enjolras in a strange tone of voice. "But only if it's okay with you, obviously. Would you be okay with waiting here with Cosette? And of course," he added, now turning to the Lark, "if Cosette's free?"

Cosette's mouth was open to a small _O_, but when she found her voice, she seemed flustered more than shocked. Uncomfortable, maybe. Good. "I've got all day. I already told Papa I'd be out, and he's not expecting me back until supper. So I'm fine with that … s'long as _you're_ okay with it, Éponine."

Éponine stared at the bottom of her cup and swirled what was left of the tea around with her spoon. From this angle, she could see a few granules of sugar that had not dissolved properly. They caught the light if she tilted her head, twirled around and around in the little storm she had created.

An afternoon with the Lark, and no-one but the Lark. A most hideous prospect. And yet … how could she say no to Enjolras? She was rather cross with him at the moment, but if she was inconveniencing him, then it was most selfish of her to refuse him any tasks he needed to attend to. So she just nodded, and she could almost _feel_ him deflating, _sense_ his relief.

Well, on the bright side, she was not afraid of offending the Lark. She could behave with her however she pleased, and would not be bound to this forced politeness. What a relief that would be! She cared not _what_ the Lark made of her.

"Right. That's that, then." Enjolras, meanwhile, heard himself saying loudly. He left his dirty dishes on the counter next to the kitchen sink, then returned to the living room. Neither of the girls had said a word, but they followed his every move. Enjolras thrust his hands in his pockets. The coin was still there, along with his mobile and wallet. They'd be all he would need. "I'll be back soon," he said, and then turned on his heel and went out the door.

Once he was out on the street, it was a relief to breathe air that wasn't taut with tension.

…

A short Underground ride later, Enjolras got off at Leicester Square station and turned onto Charing Cross Road, checking his mobile to be sure of the directions. Yes, he was headed the right way. A short ways down the street, he came to Cecil Court.

He'd been here before, but not nearly often enough. It was just a side road, a charming pedestrian-only street lined in bookshops. A hand-scribbled sign hanging in one window advertised used university textbooks for "Just ₤20, In Near-Perfect Condition! Courses of Every Kind!" It took some self-containment not to wander over and lose himself there. But no, Enjolras reminded himself sternly. He was here for a reason, and book-scouting, alas, was not it.

He found Coin Heritage tucked between two charming little second-hand bookshops. A bell above the door jangled as he came in, announcing his entry and alerting whoever was working in the back room, for the front desk was empty. Enjolras looked at the coins on display as he waited, impressed. Most of them were British coins, but there were all sorts of foreign coins as well, and together they formed quite the collection.

He didn't have to wait long, however — a man soon came running into the shop from the back room, a balding bloke who could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. He offered Enjolras the broad grin of a businessman, but there was something of genuine friendliness behind its practised brightness. "G'morning. Well, afternoon, more like, I s'pose. It's, what, almost 1pm. Well, kid. What I can I do for you today?" He folded his hands together in anticipation, and Enjolras came up to the front desk. He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the coin, keeping his fist clasped around it.

"Hi," he said, "I was wondering if you could, er, help me with confirming something?"

"Con_firming_ something?" the coin dealer asked.

"Yeah. Er, so I came up with this coin … French. Early 19th century. Except its condition is … unusual. I was wondering if you could confirm for me if it's genuine or not."

"I reckon I could do that. May I see it?" The coin dealer tapped a small dish on the glass desk and Enjolras obediently dropped the coin onto it. The coin dealer nodded a few times, putting on a small pair of _pince-nez_ spectacles, tongue slipping out the corner of his mouth as he picked up the coin and examined it, turning it over between calloused fingers. His brow furrowed and he squinted, first looking at the coin even closer, then holding it up to the light. All the while he muttered to himself unintelligibly. He weighed the coin on a scale, referenced a fat coin catalogue, and then repeated the process.

Enjolras waited.

At last the coin dealer removed the _pince-nez_ and appraised the young man in front of him. "Well, blimey. Hang on." Putting the coin down, he made an _O_ with his thumb and forefinger, holding it up in the air to express his bewildered incredulity. " … so, this coin. You got it where?"

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer, not that he actually had one to offer, but to his relief the coin dealer smoothly cut him off in his heavy Manchester accent. "Cos listen, kid. It's an amazing replica, but o' course, it can't be real." He chewed his upper lip for a moment. "You don't know much about coins, I'd wager?"

Dutifully, Enjolras shook his head, and the coin dealer nodded as if he'd known all along, had been able to sense it from the look of the young man who'd strolled into his shop. He beckoned Enjolras to come closer, and together they bent their heads to look at the coin. "See here?" From his breast pocket, the coin dealer produced a funny-looking pointing tool that looked like the pointy bit of a compass snapped off and tapped the etchings on the tail side of the coin, which was currently facing upwards. "Well, it looks right enough like a French Franc from the time period. The carvings are the same, and incredibly detailed. And if you see here" — he flipped the coin over — "there you have King Charles X, who really did appear on coins of this value, and of most if not all values if I'm not mistaken, at the time. The weight's exactly the same as what a Franc would have weighed in the decade … but at the end of the day, it just _can't_ be a genuine coin of the era."

Enjolras' gaze flicked up at the coin dealer momentarily, then looked down at the confirmed counterfeit coin. "So, it's not real?" he heard himself ask stupidly.

The coin dealer shook his head. "A coin from 1830 — that's 185 years ago; nearly two whole bleedin' centuries — should have oxidised significantly since it was minted. It's not like it were made of pure gold, you know. Even coins nowadays that aren't ten years old have corroded to some degree. Listen, even if this coin was never in circulation it would have oxidised. These carvings would scarcely be legible."

Enjolras pointed at the coin. "May I?" At a confirmatory nod from the coin dealer, he took it, running his fingers over its surface, weighed it in his palm. "But … would there have been absolutely no way to preserve it? At all? At least to keep the rusting down to a minimum? If it were genuine, that is."

"Well, maybe, if you encased it in glass. Or nitrogen. But chances are some bloke in 19th century France didn't decide to take his one-Franc coin and _encase it in nitrogen_, mate." The man shook his head apologetically. "For it to be a real coin is just impossible."

He gestured Enjolras pass him the coin, and Enjolras dropped it into his expectant palm. The coin dealer held the coin up to the light again and pointed. "Even so, it's an astonishing replica. Absolutely one of the best counterfeits I've seen in my career, and believe me, kid, I've seen plenty, and some bloody good ones at that. Usually when I encounter counterfeit coins there's always _something_ that alerts me to it being off — maybe it's a millimetre too thick, maybe it's half a gram overweight, the shape of the carving is just not quite right in the Queen's hair — but this … " He whistled. "Every detail is exactly accurate to a coin of the time period." He handed it back to Enjolras, who pocketed it. "Maybe it was supposed to be a museum piece or something, meant to show the history of minting, you know? If someone really were that good a forger, they'd either deal in current coins or play around with chemicals, make it seem corroded."

"Right." Enjolras' head was spinning. He turned around and made for the exit. "Well, thanks anyway, mate." He pushed the door open, the bell jangling in his wake again.

As Enjolras was out on the street, making his way back to the Underground, he heard a door open, someone calling after him. "Hey — kid! Hang on a tick!" Enjolras paused and turned to see the coin dealer jogging up to meet him. The man staggered to a stop and held his palms out in a questioning gesture. "Don't you at least want to sell it anyway?"


	11. Chapter 11

.

**New World for the Winning**

Author's Note: Ouch, another late chapter. I have to apologise again. I do a lot of apologising, don't I? But sadly I'm much more busy these days with schoolwork and this pesky little thing called Real Life that people keep nagging me to tend to once in a while. That, and the fact that this chapter was horribly difficult to write. Hopefully it doesn't fail to please in the long run, and hopefully the next one will be sooner!

* * *

Chapter Eleven

…

"Éponine?"

There was a clock in the room, on the wall. She'd known it was there before, naturally, but this was the first time she had been so acutely aware of it. Of its ticking.

"Éponine?"

If she shut her eyes, the ticking sound of the second hand filled up all her consciousness. It was rhythmic, even soothing in its precise timing. _Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tick-tick-tock._ She found herself tapping on her knee in time with the sound.

"Éponine."

At the inn in Montfermeil, there had been many clocks. A great tall one in the upstairs parlour, a cuckoo clock in the eating room, little tiny clocks on the night tables of all the bedrooms, and a mantle clock in the downstairs parlour. The mantle clock had been her favourite. It had been small, though not half so small as the little clocks in the bedroom. It had been a beautiful clock, Éponine used to think, with its detailed little carvings and smooth white face always covered in the layer of glass Maman made sure to keep well-polished, and so nicely painted, too: a lovely hue of a pale, pinkish brown ornate with a design of gilded gold leaves. She used to love that clock so much that, when she had been very small, she would stand on tiptoe at the mantelpiece so that she was at eye level with it. Like that, she could spend hours just watching the second hand tick its way around that smooth white face, and then she would try and see if she could catch the minute hand moving. With much patience, she sometimes could.

_Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tick-tick-tock. _

"Éponine, if you really don't want to talk to me, just say as much and I'll go, all right?"

Éponine opened her eyes as she was woken quite rudely from her moment of reminiscence by the Lark. Her gaze shot over to the blonde leaning against the back of Enjolras' sofa and darkened. "What is it?" she snapped.

Cosette looked sheepish, awkward. Good. The more uncomfortable she felt, the better. But she found her voice. "In all fairness, Éponine, you did want to talk to me. Or so you told Enjolras."

It had been perhaps twenty minutes since Enjolras had left. (Éponine wasn't completely sure, she had only taken to obsessively staring at the clock a few minutes ago). Since Enjolras' departure, Éponine had found herself quite incapable of facing the Lark as of yet, so she'd taken to ignoring her. The Lark had at first stepped back and given her some privacy, though she'd stubbornly insisted on hovering nearby. Éponine had been hoping the privacy would last, but no such luck. Certainly it had not yet been half an hour, and now here came the Lark, trying to _converse _with her as if they were dear friends.

Éponine tried to concentrate on simply looking at the clock again. It didn't work very well, or for very long, because Cosette soon laid a hand on her shoulder. Éponine immediately stiffened at the touch, and to her surprised relief, the Lark pulled her hand away. "Éponine," she said again, and sighed, coming round the sofa and plopping onto it. She crossed one skinny leg over the over. "Look. I can tell you really don't like me. And I don't know why. But if you want me to help you in any way, well, you might want to listen. And even if what I'm doing here is of no help at all, I just want to understand. That all right?"

No. It is not. I wish dearly you would let me alone and leave. I should have you know I am tolerating this only because Enjolras expected it of me.

She eyed the Lark darkly. "I suppose so."

Cosette tucked her legs under her and set her jaw. "Good. Cos I wanted to talk to you, Éponine really … talk to you."

Éponine glowered. "Then may I suggest you get to the point and do so, Miss?"

Those bright blue eyes blinked, but Cosette smoothed the front of her shirt and reached for the bag she'd had with her. From it she produced quite a fat book. Éponine pretended to look disinterested, but her brow crinkled at the sight of its title: _A Detailed History of Post-Revolutionary France to 1950_. Even so, she took care to keep her lips pressed tightly together. She would not, she decided, utter a word for the Lark unless directly addressed.

Meanwhile, Cosette was truly beginning to look nervous and timid, worrying her upper lip between her teeth, and the sudden resemblance to the twitchy, pathetic child she had once been was so striking that Éponine was unsure whether to laugh in bitter amusement or scoff in disdain. "So, Éponine," the Lark said haltingly. "I was at the library the other day, like I said, and I got this book out. I was trying to find out more about the revolution you came from, and I did find it. 'S called the June Rebellion, as I was telling you."

Éponine offered her the honour of a sidelong glance, and Cosette sighed, slamming the heavy tome shut. With sudden calm, the blonde set her book aside, put her hands in her lap, and scooted an inch or two closer to Éponine, who instinctively stiffened.

From the Lark, another sigh, a resigned but patient sigh. "You hate me, don't you, Éponine?"

The comment was so frank and to the point, delivered without the slightest hint of restraint, that Éponine could not help but startle. She finally allowed herself to look at the Lark in the eye. Cosette had a grim set to her face, and seemed to be patiently awaiting an answer. Nevertheless, there was to be found a glint in her eye that suggested she was not only _awaiting_ an answer, she expected one, and if she had to she would wait all day for it. There was, too, a gleam of confidence.

Éponine swallowed and cringed, as if ingesting cough tonic. At last, she squared her shoulder and raised her chin up. There was no need for her to keep a refined attitude, so she said with the sauce she reserved for addressing her parents, "Your powers of observation, it would seem, shall never cease to astound me. Miss."

"All right." Cosette gave a small nod. "I figured as much. Sorry, love, but frankly you weren't doing a very good job of hiding it."

"'Twas never my intention to hide anything," Éponine shot back, and was profoundly pleased when Cosette withered, just a little. But not for very long, in an instant she was sitting up straight again, the gleam back in her eye.

Cosette's expression was impassive. "All right. Why?"

Ah, but was that not the question? Éponine's gut twisted and suddenly she was struck with the sheer force of memory, that cruel, mocking thing. At first, a childhood, one of simplistic contentment. Running around the inn with Azelma, and Maman brewing soup for the customers. Then, an adolescence filled with unhappiness in its purest form — poverty, starvation, a broken heart. The very last she blamed on the Lark, of course, but her loathing went far beyond that, its roots burrowing deep into the soil of her feelings. Éponine let loose a bitter, barking laugh in spite of herself. "Ha! Why, you say? 'Why?'"

"Well," Cosette looked taken aback by the outburst. "Yes."

_No need to be afraid of holding back_. And such a relief it was, too, to set her emotions loose. Half for the mere pleasure of doing so, Éponine laughed again. "Oh, my dear little Lark, where could I possibly begin?"

Another sigh. That made at least three. This one lined in patience wearing down at the seams. "Look, Éponine, tell me or don't tell me. Your choice. But you're hardly keeping it a secret from me, that you dislike me as much as you do, so if you're going to tell me, then please proceed. Otherwise, I'll either sit here and talk with you about the June Rebellion, because I want to help; or, if you _don't_ want my help, then be honest and ask me to leave."

Éponine had not really been expecting such pointed words coming from the Lark, the epitome of sweetness, selflessness and good graces on God's green earth. Back was that confident gleam in the Lark's eye, noticeable as ever, and for all she hated her, Éponine could not help but feel an inkling of respect for the strength Cosette was clearly able to muster.

She crossed her arms, trying to come up with a way to express it all. She shut her eyes briefly, and opened them to discover Cosette awaiting her answer, patiently, without further pressing. At length Éponine muttered under her breath. Cosette arched one pale brow in response, and Éponine sucked in a deep breath before answering properly. "You and — " She cut off abruptly as her voice quavered. She had to suck in another deep breath before trying again. "You and Marius — " Again she was forced to cut herself off.

"Sorry, Marius? My _boyfriend_?" Cosette blurted. "_What_?"

"You and Marius … " Éponine said slowly. "He loves you, he fell in love with you before he'd even met you, — he merely glimpsed you from across the square, for heaven's sake! — before he even knew your name. Like a fool. He was so infatuated with _you_, the _Lark_, and asked for my aid, oblivious that I loved him much more, for much longer, and … and he never even noticed me." At the end of her brief monologue, her chest was heaving and her eyes were prickling with the oncoming threat of tears.

Meanwhile, Cosette's expression was startled but calm, a curious combination. "Marius?" she said at length. "You … you're in love with Marius?"

"Since I was thirteen," Éponine pronounced in confession, her cheeks turning pink. The way she had put it, it made her hatred seem petty and childish, and perhaps it was, she admitted to herself, but that did not mean she had to come to terms with it. For amongst all that petty, childish hatred was simple heartbreak, a pain that had defined her for nearly five years. "But worry not," she added coolly, "for I do not believe he shall leave you for me. He never did."

She waited for the Lark to be angered, to react. She didn't of course, perfect thing she was. It was a long time before any response came at all, and when it did, it was in such a measured, patient tone that Éponine had to resist the urge to throw her hands in the air. "And that's why … " She shook her head, and to Éponine's horror, laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. "I'm sorry, Éponine, but whatever it is you hate me for, because I get the feeling it's more than that, it wasn't me who did it. It wasn't _me_."

"I'm afraid I don't follow … Miss." Éponine skilfully used the title as a jibe. The Lark of course didn't even flinch.

"I think you do," Cosette said softly. "You're clever, Éponine. You don't need me, or anyone to spell _that_ out for you. But I will say that whatever I did in your world, I'm sorry."

Sympathy. It was perhaps the least welcome response Éponine could have anticipated, and she stiffened where she'd felt herself begin to … to _soften_, pieces of meticulously-crafted armour clinking back into place. "It is no matter," she said shortly. "There were more pressing matters you wished to discuss with me?"

Cosette blinked, then nodded. "Right. Yes." The hand was thankfully removed from Éponine's arm as the Lark reached for the enormous history book again. Tongue between her teeth, she flipped through the book until she reached a page she had marked. Smoothing out the page, Cosette gestured. "The June Rebellion. You can read it if you like, or I could — read it to you. Up to you."

Éponine regarded the book coolly. "Why?"

"Well. Sorry, I sound like an _absolute_ cynic here; really, so sorry, but I wanted to see if this account of the revolution you were in, I wanted to see if it matched up with your memories."

Éponine reached for the book, laying it down in her own lap. It was one of the heaviest books she had ever seen, larger even than the large Law textbook of Enjolras' she had leafed through; larger than the textbooks she used to hide from Marius back in Paris to tease him, holding them aloft with a triumphant smirk when he realised one was messing; and certainly larger than the little storybooks she had read as a child. "I _can_ read, you know," she said in a superior tone. Hunching her shoulders, she concentrated on working her way through the text.

It wasn't an easy task for a girl who'd hardly had a chance to exercise her education for the past eight years. The print was small and the vocabulary beyond Éponine's own. She had to run her finger under the word she was reading and mouth the words out to herself, testing their texture to register their meaning in a way that was comprehensible to her.

After reading the first half of the text, there was no doubt that the rebellion in Cosette's history book was the same one that Éponine herself had been a part of before being shot. The short passage was divided into subsections: "Causes of the Rebellion;" "The Rebellion;" and "Consequences of the Rebellion." The first section expanded a little on what she already knew; the second, described in droning fact what the battles had been like.

But her hands were shaking a little by the time she reached the third section. The phrases danced before her eyes, stark black print on paper mocking her in its soulless delivery of information. _Forgotten chapter of history … no formal records made at the time … no known survivors …_

No known survivors. Marius …

By the time Éponine reached the second half of the article, "Primary Source: An Anonymous Witness' Account," she had to set the volume aside a moment. Dimly she heard Cosette asking timidly, "Éponine? You okay?" She ignored her. Gritting her teeth, Éponine forced herself to read the second half of the passage, determined to get through it. She simply had to know. She had to know what had happened. Surely, surely there must have been at least some survivors of the rebellion? At least one? Marius. Marius had been clever, and strong. Enjolras had been a good fighter.

And Gavroche, her dear little brother, he'd been quick of mind, too, and a good hider. The soldiers would not have killed a child, they couldn't have done. He must have hidden himself away, a safe distance from the fighting. He must have been ushered in by one of the residents of the apartments on the street. He must have been sent away as soon as the fighting got too bad.

He must have.

"Éponine?"

Éponine turned on her, eyes flashing. "I am attempting to read the text, Miss. If you would allow me. It is, after all, what you asked of me, is it not?"

Cosette put her hands in the air in a gesture of innocence, and Éponine resigned herself to continue reading. Her hands were shaking, and she was whispering the words aloud as she read them without realising it. _An atrocity, violence beyond imagining … Hoping those lads really would be victorious … Shot and killed a defenceless child … The streets were soon running with blood …_

No known survivors. Marius, Enjolras.

Shot and killed a defenceless child. Gavroche.

Éponine dropped the book, like it burned her. She made no effort to catch it, and neither did Cosette. It hit the floor and stayed there.

Éponine swiped at her eyes as she released, mortified, that tears were beginning to well up there. She was more horrified still when she felt one of Cosette's hesitant hands squeezing her shoulder. She violently shrugged the Lark off. "I am fine, Miss," she said acidly.

The Lark's voice was quiet. "Do you want me to leave, Éponine?"

She would not look at her. "I would most appreciate it if you did. I have wanted you gone from here for a long time now."

Cosette took the remark with infuriating calm. "Then you should've said so." She bent to retrieve the book, tucking it into her bag, which she slung over her shoulder, and stood up. "Right." A curt little nod. "Goodbye, Éponine."

Éponine refused to answer, and with a weary sigh, Cosette made for the door. Éponine wished she would walk faster. But in the doorway, the Lark stopped and turned. "It's strange, but your memories," she said quietly. "They're so … precise. Detailed. Those don't strike me as false memories spun by a weird form of amnesia, by a hit over the head. Even if they seem real, they're never quite genuine enough if you squint. Too clinical, there's always some kind of disconnect in emotional response. But yours aren't like that. Yours are the sorts of memories that can only be gained by experience. It's just … strange."

Finally she turned, and went out the door, shutting it behind her. Éponine stared at the closed door long after she was gone, until she'd calmed herself down enough to not have to worry about weeping.

She found herself curling up into a ball, pressing herself into a corner of the sofa and burrowing there, folding into herself, suddenly wanting to take up as little space as possible. She stayed there a long time, until the sky was touched in the first brushstrokes of evening; her mind clearing itself and distracting itself by tending to tasks of the simplest degree, to little exercises she assigned herself. Counting the cracks in the ceiling, plucking bits of fluff from the hem of her dress, from the sofa cushions.

Finally she unfurled herself, stretching her aching limbs, and wandered over to the shelf to read the titles on the spines of Enjolras' books, in more detail than she had that first morning, searching for one that might intrigue her.

Beyond the rows of textbooks, she found what she guessed were novels, many of them with slim paper bookmarks still poking out halfway through, hinting of pet projects left unfinished and forgotten. She rather liked the titles of many. _Lord of the Flies_. _Our Man in Havana. Good Omens. American Gods. Jane Eyre. Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The Book Thief. John Dies at the End. The Hobbit. _She was tempted to read one, but she opened one of these up, and was so confused at the author's language and style she found she could not understand it. She supposed she could have slogged her way through the book anyway, just for something to do, but Éponine found herself yearning for more. She did not want to simply distract herself, she wanted something she could lose herself in.

It had been a long time since she'd read a book, and as a child she'd never gotten past the stage of very simple little novels with pictures. She'd not minded reading her little books, but had been much more drawn to the idea of running wild outside and playing games with her sister. Now she wanted nothing more than to be able to lose herself completely to another world, if not stranger than the one she was in now, at least one in which she was not a part.

It was a feeling that was rather new to Éponine, and she thought it curious she had not yearned so badly to read novels to be lost to back in Paris, so wretched as her existence there had been.

It was a feeling that was rather new to Éponine, and she thought she might like it.

...

On the way back from the coin dealers', Enjolras had passed a Tesco, and realised that getting some groceries might be a good idea, seeing how void of meals the fridge and cupboards were. He felt that Éponine deserved something more than his usual take-away fare. Unless his cooking proved to be proper preposterous, of course. He considered himself a wretched cook, but then, he hadn't really tried very hard before.

He arrived in the early evening at his flat complex weighed down with groceries bags that were stuffed with fruits and vegetables (mostly fruits; they made for an easy breakfast); more porridge envelopes; and a few cans of soup and microwave meals. He tried to get simple foods, nothing she wouldn't be accustomed to.

One glance at his watch revealed to him he was quite a bit later than he'd intended to be. He'd gotten to the coin dealer's at, what, 13.30? Possibly earlier? After his long conversation with the coin dealer, he'd gone off to Tesco, which had taken a while because he had spent an age and a half putting forward an excessive amount of consideration into what foods to buy. So yes, he'd anticipated he was a little late, but he didn't expect he'd be _this_ late. Cosette had surely long since left, for it was now creeping up near 6 pm. "Oh, _shite_," said Enjolras aloud.

How was it humanly possible to spend that many hours at a Tesco?

He took the stairs two at a time, and fumbled for his keys at his door, shouldering it open and thinking to himself that he would not have any grounds to blame Éponine one bit for being proper, bloody fuming at him.

He was naturally surprised, then, at the sight of Éponine curled up on the sofa, her legs tucked under her and a book in her hands. She looked up and smiled politely at him "Good evening, sir." Setting down her book, she quickly stood up. "What is it you have got there?"

"Er … " Enjolras set one of the bags down; its plastic handle biting into his fingers. "Groceries. I stopped for some food, so it's why I'm a bit late … "

"It is quite all right, sir," she answered, sensing his sheepishness, and rushed to pick up one of the bags. "May I help you with your load? I could help you carry it to the kitchen. Here, allow me to take that." She reached for the other two bags he was holding and took them easily from his hands.

"Oh, no, Éponine, it's all right, I can — "

"I don't at all mind." She was already lugging the bags over to the kitchen. "You forget, or perhaps did not know, that I'm well used to carrying heavy loads. I used to carry the pail of water down the street and up the stairs every day, you know." Enjolras trailed behind her, his mouth half-open in a protest that he couldn't quite get past his lips.

The shopping bags were deposited on the kitchen counter. Éponine turned to face him, hands on hips. "Right, then. You must forgive me; I've no idea where to put it all away."

"That's all right, Éponine. I'll do that. You just go on … reading your book."

"Oh!" She blushed and ducked her head. "Oh, yes. I did borrow one of the novels from your shelf, sir, I … I do hope you don't mind, but I had nothing else to do and the books were simply there to read, and, and as I told you, I've an education, sir. I can read well enough, and I knew not what else to do, so I simply … well, I simply picked one. I didn't _believe_ you would mind terribly, and … oh, bother, I'm babbling like a foolish young girl. You must forgive me."

Enjolras cocked an eyebrow and suppressed a smirk. He gave her instead a sympathetic smile. "Don't worry about it. You're a guest at my place, love; you can help yourself to whichever books you want. Make yourself at home, y'know?" He turned to the shopping bags. "Or you could stay here and we could talk. If you prefer."

She leaned against a free section of the counter and a smile ghosted over her face. "All right. Yes, all right, then. I should like that, sir."

A silence, as Enjolras produced several packages of berries and deposited them in the fridge, filled only by the rustling of the plastic Tesco bag and the hum of the refrigerator. At last he said, "So, which book? Must confess that I've only read a couple o' those cover-to-cover. Don't tell the boys that, by the way; most of them are gifts and I feel sort of guilty about having abandoned them."

"Whyever did you abandon them," Éponine said, "if you don't mind my asking? Were they of poor quality?"

"What? Oh, God, no. They're brilliant, the lot of them, it's just … not much time."

"Oh," she said quietly, and in the silence that followed Enjolras cringed. Of course, that sentence could so easily be interpreted the wrong way, that he didn't have much time for _her_. Quickly Enjolras turned his attention to tending to his task of putting the produce away in the refrigerator. When he turned around, Éponine was fiddling with the fabric of her skirt.

"Sir," she said slowly. "Do you suppose that Franc I gave you shall be of any worth at all? I've been worrying about it some, since you told me that Francs are no longer a currency in use. And I _do_ so want to pay you back for all you've done for me."

Involuntarily, Enjolras' fingers went to his jeans pocket, where he could still feel the weight of the coin. That coin dealer had seemed disappointed when he'd said he didn't want to sell the coin after all. Enjolras really had considered selling the coin, as a replica, when he'd been told just how much it would be worth; and that selfish, greedy, human part of him in the back of his mind still nagged at him for the missed opportunity. But as the coin dealer had enthused a little too much about how _genuine_ Éponine's replica coin appeared to be, he'd found himself standing in the face of a complete dilemma. So what he'd done was that he'd stuffed the coin deep into his pocket and said haltingly, "Er, y'know what? I think I'll keep it actually, but … thanks."

Now he turned back to Éponine, standing there with her lips pressed tightly together in nervousness. He shook his head. "I dunno, but — ahem — hopefully it'll come to some worth. Not that it matters," he added quickly. Too quickly. "That is to say … you're welcome here, Éponine. I've told you, you don't need to pay me a pound."

She shrugged a thin shoulder. "You leave me still in your debt, sir." Pushing off from the counter, she crossed the room over to the shopping bags. "Is there really nothing I can do to help put all this away?"

Enjolras considered. "If you _really_ wanna help, not that you have to, you can take the things that are in boxes like these — " he held up a box of cornflakes in one hand, and a box of instant porridge in the other "— and put them in the cupboard. Same thing with the soup cans," he continued, nodding to one. "I suppose we can have soup for supper, if that'll suffice."

"Oh! Oh, it would, sir," Éponine replied quickly. "It certainly would." She hastened to help with the grocery bags. As she did so, she chatted idly with him, and he was grateful for a turn in the conversation. It was unusual for Éponine to be quite this talkative, he thought to himself as she chattered. He was used to her bursting with excitement, maybe, and asking questions of all sorts, but beyond that he'd begun to get the impression that she was something of an introvert. "I think it an awful shame you don't read terribly much. I suppose you are very busy studying for university all the time, and catering to your meetings and all; you were quite the leader in my world … oh, sir, you were asking me which book it was I was reading. Well, let me tell you, though I admit I've scarcely gotten past the second chapter for I'm rather out of practise and a rather slow reader, that it was _Jane Eyre_. I don't know if you ever finished that particular one, but I like it very much."

_Jane Eyre_. He'd forgotten he owned a copy of that book; it had been given to him years ago, way back in secondary, by his first (and, to date, only) girlfriend, Kerry. The relationship hadn't lasted very long. Kerry had been one of the many giggling girls in his school who'd fawned after him and watched him from across the classroom with moon eyes; but, unlike the others, she'd watched him from a distance as opposed to with a posse of equally-giggly friends. She'd actually been very quiet, Kerry had. A reader. As the time for the Christmas dance had been creeping close, he hadn't been able to neglect the fact that nobody had bothered to invite poor, quiet Kerry Lakewood, and as he'd had a bit of admiration for her despite his socially clueless nature, he'd awkwardly asked her to the dance. After she'd proved herself to be a hopeless romantic towards him, insisting on snogging him to sleepiness under the (plastic) mistletoe at the dance, a few dates had followed. To the movies, to the park, dinner, and once out to afternoon tea.

On their second-last date, Kerry had given him a copy of _Jane Eyre_, despite the fact that by this point they had long since started drifting apart, largely for the reason of his social cluelessness, saying it was her absolute _favourite_, and please oh please oh please couldn't he read it, for her at least? He'd gotten halfway through when Kerry had declared she wanted to break up with him on account of the fact that, "for such a gorgeous bloke, he was bloody dull." He hadn't really been that heartbroken, and neither had Kerry, as far as he could tell. But the book had been stuffed to the bottom of his sock drawer, and somehow moved when he'd left home to his bookshelf, where it had promptly been forgotten again.

"Ah," said Enjolras, "no. That one I didn't finish. Bit romantic for me. It was a gift." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Just … just don't tell the boys I've got a copy, yeah?" He waggled his eyebrows to show he meant this in jest, and Éponine giggled politely. By now they had finished packing the groceries; and they drifted into the sitting room. Éponine curled up on the sofa, putting her book away, while Enjolras leaned against the table, thinking that he should really put the soup on for supper, and maybe attempt to cook some of the vegetables he'd bought as well. He would in a minute, he decided.

Raking a hand through his hair, he said, "So, I take it Cosette's left by now?"

Éponine's expression darkened so quickly he was taken aback. "Yes," she said with alarming cool. "Yes, she has."

"Oh," Enjolras heard himself saying stupidly. "When was that?"

"Quite some time ago," was the measured reply. "A few hours, I would guess, though I looked not at the time."

"Oh," he said again. He did not press her on what they'd discussed. He doubted Éponine would hand over any information on the matter, and even if she would, it was clear she was in no mood to talk about it. What _was_ it that made her hate Cosette so much? "Well, I'll just go and make supper, then. All right?"

Those piercing dark eyes flicked his way. A stiff little nod. "That would be most lovely." Her words, her syllables were clipped at the ends. Then she swung her gaze away and took instead to staring at her toes.

Enjolras groaned internally, looking from the kitchen doorway to Éponine, back to the kitchen doorway and back to Éponine again. Cluelessly, of course. Finally he settled for the kitchen; it provided for a bit of an escape from the necessities of human interaction. Oh, he really wasn't used to interacting with girls. He'd been a fumbling idiot with Kerry and he was even more of a fumbling idiot with Éponine now. "I'm too old for this," he muttered to himself wryly as he scanned the drawers for a can opener.

He was still rummaging when he heard it. The quiet but unmistakable sound of crying, small sobs struggling to be suppressed. Enjolras froze, a hand hovering over the cluttered contents of the open drawer. Yes, that was the sound of someone crying, in his living room. Quietly, very quietly, he pushed the drawer shut and made his way back to the living room.

Éponine was still sitting on the sofa, but her shoulders were hunched forward so she was bent nearly double. Her hands were clapped over her mouth as if to prevent the sound of her sobs from carrying, but there was no missing them, and tears ran freely down her cheeks. She did not notice Enjolras until he came up behind her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Éponine jumped and wheeled around, then hastily swiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist, muttering. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir … don't know what's … "

Enjolras came around to sit next to her. "What's wrong, Éponine?" he asked quietly, and she furiously shook her head back and forth, looking away.

"Nothing. It is nothing. Leave me, please, if you would be so kind."

"Éponine."

She swallowed hard, a hiccoughing little sob escaping her despite her best efforts. "Please, I don't mean to cause you any trouble, sir." Another sob, her shoulders shaking.

Enjolras slid a little closer. "Éponine."

She shut her eyes tightly. "Pray let me alone."

"Éponine."

She cracked open one eye, her gaze sliding over to him half-guiltily. "Sir, please … " It was a whisper. It was clearly draining for her to say even that. "I don't want to cause no fuss."

Enjolras reached out and impulsively took her hands in his own and squeezed. She relaxed just so, those sloe brown eyes now fixated upon him. "Éponine," he said softly yet again, "why don't you tell me what's wrong? As a friend, eh?" He hoped this was what he was supposed to say; how he was supposed to react, respond.

Éponine sniffed hard, wrenching free one hand to swipe at her eyes again. She drew in several shuddering breaths. "It is everything rather," she blurted out, scarcely aware that the façade of formality in which she had immersed herself was slipping away, her carefully-suppressed _argot_ accent emerging. No, not an _argot_ accent. She was speaking English now. "And then a bit after. I don't really know how … "

If Enjolras noticed her formality and accent slipping, he didn't say anything, and barely aware of herself now, Éponine went on, desperate suddenly simply to talk, to cry, to vent to _someone_. "'Tisn't so much that I'm afraid o' this world, sir, though rightly I am. But I'm c-confused more than anything else, if you follow me. The L— Cosette was t-telling me all 'bout the revolution you started yerself, sir, 's come to be known as the _June Rebellion_. I-it's for the history books now, and not even that … "

She released another hiccoughing sob, and sucked in several deep breaths until her body had mostly ceased its shaking. Until she'd recovered just enough to let her more formal accent slip back into place with a neat little _click_. Dimly she was aware of Enjolras' arms enveloping her and pulling her close. She rested her head against his broad shoulder, drawn to the warmth and presence of him and sniffled pathetically. "It failed. It f-failed and it was forgotten," she said. "Nobody wrote of it at the time, not the newspapers, not the historians, not anyone. It did not even appear on the police records. Indeed, the only reason it was remembered at all was for witness accounts, taken down many years later, and that is all the world knows of our rebellion.

"And it _failed_, sir. B-back in Paris you were killed, all of you." She shuddered. "Horribly killed. Shot and stabbed and, and b-beaten to death. And nobody wrote a word. All your ideas, all your hope, all your noble, stupid dreams that the world could be bettered thrown away for naught. They killed you, they killed Marius, they even killed my brother, child that he was. Eleven years old, did you know that, sir? Shot." Furiously she swiped at her eyes again, and nestled closer into his chest as she felt the tears coming again in fresh waves, dampening the fabric of his shirt. "I joined the fighting to protect him, did you know that? Not because I believed your little battle could be won. I was hopeful, of course, not of victory, but of remembrance. I didn't even care if I died or not, I just wanted him safe."

"Your brother?" Enjolras asked gently.

She shook her head into his shoulder. "No, not … directly, though yes, I wanted to keep him safe too. It was to protect Marius. I didn't want Marius to die. But maybe, maybe if I wasn't here, maybe if I hadn't been so stupid as to let myself get shot like that, maybe I could have protected him, maybe I could have saved his life at least … and my brother's … maybe."

_Maybe_. It had always been her least-favourite word, a sad two syllables on which to hang all her stupid hopes. Now she repeated it like a mantra, _maybe, maybe, maybe_.

She kept saying it for a long time, as the tears came with renewed strength. She whispered it to herself, not even sure if she was speaking aloud or not, until at last she had not the energy to do even that. She cried until she had no tears left to cry, and then she whimpered until she had exhausted herself. The whole time, Enjolras cradled her in his arms.

When finally she stopped crying, Enjolras held her just a little bit longer, then she felt his arms gently loosening their grip, slipping away. Éponine groped for his shirtsleeve and held on tight. She looked up at him, feeling like a waif but too exhausted to care, with pleading eyes. "Hold me just a little bit longer," she breathed. "Please?" Those arms enveloped her again and she nestled into him. "Stay with me," she murmured.

Enjolras murmured words of comfort, until eventually Éponine freed herself from his gentle but firm hold. She scrubbed at her eyes. And then she realised just what it was she'd done, just how she'd behaved. What must Enjolras think of her now? She doubted he was appalled or disgusted by her; he was too kind-hearted for that. But there was no denying the look now written all over his face: pity. Pity, sympathy; was there a difference and if so, who cared? Horrified, Éponine shot to her feet. "I'm sorry, sir," she babbled. "I don't know what's gotten into me. You must excuse me, now, I am sorry, my apologies … "

And she fled to her borrowed bedroom.

Left behind on the sofa, Enjolras stared helplessly after her, a whirlwind of emotions tumbling through his mind and competing for his attention. He stood up slowly and walked over to his bedroom, suddenly acutely aware of the coin in his pocket.

Once in his bedroom, Enjolras sat down at his desk. He buried his face in his arms and groaned.

…

Once in her bedroom, Éponine sat down at the desk. She buried her face in her arms and wept.


	12. Chapter 12

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Twelve

…

In London, it rained frequently. There were two types of rain to choose from, one vastly more common than the other.

Today brought the first, more common kind**, **the one that Londoners were used to: grey skies and dark umbrellas serving as flimsy shields and a rainfall that, while technically light, left the air unpleasantly cold and damp.

The other kind the city had not been blessed with today: summer rain.

Waking up to such weather, the rain pattering against his bedroom window, left Enjolras in a miserable mood, and coupled with the events of last night, he would have been all too content to curl up under the duvet all day and cut off all contact with the outside world, with a Pink Floyd soundtrack to keep him company. Unfortunately such an option was not available to him.

Groaning and massaging his temples, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He let loose a mighty yawn and then walked with the stiffness of morning into the kitchen, where he groggily opened the fridge and stared blankly into it, realising he actually had no idea what it was he was looking for.

"Er," he said aloud. Then, "Ah, sod this."

"Sir?" Éponine poked her head into the room. From her sleep-mussed hair, it was evident that she, too, had only just gotten up. She crossed her arms and stepped into the room fully, leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh. Hullo, Éponine," said Enjolras. He shut the fridge door and leaned against the counter, altogether unsure what behaviour towards her would be appropriate given yesterday's turbulent events. His experience at the coin dealer's, followed by Éponine's breakdown, had kept him up much of the night, and it hadn't been because of the tea he'd brewed himself at half midnight; it was the questions.

Doubts and questions and internal conflicts, and they were all still racing around and turning circles in his mind. They grasped at one another, yanked each other back, competing for his attention, getting noticed only to be trampled over by new questions. They'd been making quite a bloody ruckus in there, too; it was like the mad squabbling and squalor of a schoolyard.

But now, standing before him with an endearing expression of combined amusement and curiosity on a lovely face as if nothing had changed between them was the great sum and source of all the questions put together, an enigma in the form of a girl.

"Good morning to you, sir," she said politely, with a courteous little inclination of the head.

"Morning," he said, turning his attention now to the kitchen cupboards. "I was just, er, thinking of what to make for breakfast. I don't suppose you have any requests? It'll probably be dull for you to have porridge again."

"I don't mind," she retorted brightly, coming up behind him. "But if there is anything else, then I should like to try it, if you would."

Nothing much good in the cupboards. There were crumpets, but clever and alert as he was, he'd forgotten to get butter at Tesco yesterday. Back to the fridge again. "Toast and preserves?" he suggested, looking over his shoulder at her.

A smile. Warm. Genuine. "That would be lovely."

They set about preparing breakfast. Éponine insisted in helping in whatever way she could. As she knew neither how to operate the toaster or the kettle, she went about setting the table and pouring milk. Enjolras could not recall the last time he'd set the table for a meal, breakfast or otherwise, before Éponine had come along. It was not something he was accustomed to, and he couldn't say if he preferred this new lifestyle to his old chaotic one or not.

Certainly before, things had been bleeding _simpler_.

As Enjolras prepared toast and Éponine set the table, the atmosphere in the flat was warm, simple, domestic. Idle conversation and friendly instruction passed between them.

But once they were seated, their toast with preserves, tea, and glasses of milk before them on a table that had been set, the inevitable took place.

A new awkwardness and uncertainty hung thick in the air. It sat down, managing to wedge itself in the half metre of table between them. Cross-legged. It made itself at home. It made itself known.

"Well," Enjolras finally said eloquently. "Bloody hell."

Éponine nodded in agreement and raised her mug of tea as if in a toast.

Enjolras raked a hand through his curls. "I'm sorry, Éponine," he said. "I just don't really know what to think anymore. About — y'know, all this." He swept his arms out in a gesture for effect.

Her expression, in turn, was blank, but with a vague element of coolness just underneath. "You didn't believe me before."

"No," he confessed guiltily, hiding behind a long sip of tea. "Not really."

"But … well, I cannot claim to know what happened, sir, but something has changed. You believe me now. Or you think you do at any rate."

Enjolras scratched at the back of his neck. "I, I don't really know. I don't know, Éponine. I'm sorry."

She twirled her teaspoon around in her mug, concentrating on the little tempest she had stirred there. "It's quite all right, sir." She looked up, smiled ruefully. "It is a mad and confusing tale I certainly cannot make sense of. In your place, I would not have believed me, either. You must not cause yourself any grief over the matter."

He studied her a moment, taking in the sincerity on her face. At last he found himself nodding. "Yeah. Yeah — right. Sorry, it's just that it's all … "

A small and patient nod. "I know, sir. I understand." She cradled the mug of tea between both hands and took a long sip, breathing in deeply. "Although, if it would not greatly inconvenience you, sir, I should like to spend a little time alone today. I shan't be any bother, and I request nothing else other than a bit of space in my chambers, and privacy." This last she stated curtly and pointedly, the discomfort between them settling right back in again after having taken its temporary leave.

"No, no, of course. Sure. Whatever you like. I'll, I dunno, think for a bit." He glanced over at his shelf of textbooks. "Maybe get ahead for next year." And maybe, if he could summon the energy, he'd give Combeferre a call and talk to him about the coin.

"Thank you." Éponine nodded, and turned her attention at last to the toast. She took a large bite, chewed, and swallowed. She did not make any comment, and the meal went on in silence. It was a relief to the both of them when it was over, and as soon as her mug had been drained, Éponine got up and deposited her dishes in the sink before grabbing the copy of _Jane Eyre_ where she'd left it and retreating into her room.

It was the last he would see of her until the evening.

…

In her bedroom in the Chelsea district of London, Cosette sat cross-legged at her desk chair sipping the leftover iced tea she'd made last night, waiting for Marius to come. He'd sent her a half-dozen text messages while she'd been at Enjolras' yesterday, and more still later in the evening, but she hadn't worked up the state of mind to respond to any of them until nearly midnight.

Now today, with Papa out on yet _another_ work outing — last one in the next fortnight, he _promised_ — Marius was due to spend the day over at her flat. She'd asked him to be over by noon, but as was his wont, her boyfriend showed up a full hour and a half early, tapping out a cheerful little rhythm of announcement on the door.

Rolling her eyes in fond annoyance, Cosette got to her feet and answered the door. Marius stood there, the same old daft grin spread across his handsome freckled face. "Coming by a bit early, aren't you?" she said pointedly, and he shrugged.

"Your dad's out already, isn't he?"

"Ye-es, but that's not the point. Oh, never mind that, come on in." She grabbed his hand and tugged him into the room, shutting the door just in time for him to swing her around and kiss her quickly on the lips.

Cosette laughed, standing tiptoe to respond in kind, and laughed louder as he picked her up by the waist and swung her around. When he set her down again, she bit her lip and smiled, flashing him a quick provocative tongue-in-teeth smile before leading over to her bedroom. They settled in their usual places, him sprawled comfortably on her bed; her in her desk chair.

"Iced tea?" she offered, and he nodded.

"Please."

She passed him the jug.. "Here, just drink it out of there, it's not like it actually matters when there's only a bit left … " Turning, she took a nice, long sip of her own drink.

"So," she finally said once her cup had been drained. "I told you that I went to talk to Éponine yesterday, yeah?"

"You did, yeah."

"She really doesn't like me." Cosette shook her head. "Marius, all this is just … look, I don't want to think anymore. By which I mean, I actually think I might. And you and the boys aren't gonna like it."

"Oi. One thing at a time," Marius insisted, holding up his hand. "What happened when you went over there? Tell me that first, then we'll try to come to a decision."

Cosette gave him a brief overview of her conversation with Éponine, from the cool reception she had received to her reaction upon reading the passage in the book to her shocking revelation.

When she was through, Marius gaped at her, and she nodded in agreement. "Yep. I know."

He'd sat up at some point during the conversation, and now he let himself fall back against her pillows. "Blimey."

"Mm-hmm."

"So … so, Éponine, she thinks she was in love with me when she was in Paris? Not that I really think she was in 1832 Paris, but … " he trailed off.

"It's what she said. And the thing is Marius, I dunno. I feel that if those memories of hers are actually all fabricated somehow, due to some weird side effect of amnesia, then she wouldn't have such an emotional response. Éponine responded as if those were her real memories. Like she was actually there at the June Rebellion. When she was talking about her brother. First off, let's remember 'her brother' is Gavroche, _our_ Gavroche. Shot and killed." Cosette shook her head. "'S what I told her. That those memories created too much of an emotional stir in her. And I _know_ it's impossible, that it can't make any sense, but let's face it, is there _really_ a logical explanation to all of this?"

Marius looked at her, perplexed. "So you're saying … "

"What I'm _saying _is … " Cosette allowed herself to trail off, giving herself a moment to gather her thoughts. "Marius, I think I might believe her."

…

It was 3pm when the rain finally ceased, but the sky still remained overcast, hinting that the sky was not yet through releasing its full wrath upon London. The run-down flat in Whitechapel smelled of last night's Chinese takeaway. No-one had put it away in the fridge, and what was left of the fried noodles and sweet-and-sour balls were already beginning to reek.

Azelma lay on her stomach on the floor, watching _Top Gear_ on reruns. Like all the programs she watched when Mum and Dad were out — from _Benny Hill_ to _Neighbours_ — she wasn't paying much attention. As always, her mind was elsewhere, floating somewhere just around the corner. It was an old survival tactic she'd mastered before her sister died. Today, however, she wasn't drifting, but thinking, and very hard, as hard as she could.

Azelma didn't remember her sister as much as she should have. She'd been nine years old when the accident had happened, and she could remember _some_ things about Éponine. Her recklessness, how she'd looked after Gavroche until he'd been fostered out, how she'd always combed Azelma's mass of untameable auburn curls, the collages she'd made of celebrities on the wall of their bedroom by cutting pictures out of magazines. She remembered that Éponine had stood up for herself in a way Azelma had never been able to. The rest she had let go of, had faded away. She couldn't even really hold in her memory what her sister had looked like.

Of course, she didn't think this Éponine girl who'd shown up on the doorstep was _really_ her sister, returned somehow from the dead. But if she tried to picture her dead sister's face, she supposed it was possible she could have grown to look like this new girl named Éponine. She'd certainly shared her sister's sleek dark hair, so unlike Azelma's own.

On the dusty floor, Azelma began to draw circles with her finger. She drew a question mark in each in her own version of artistic expression. Then she wiped out the image with the sleeve of her shirt, and the dust particles went flying only to settle back down on the first surface they could find. Azelma sneezed, then fumbled for the remote control and turned the telly off. Either Mum or Dad would be home soon, anyway, and would probably give her grief for watching too much television.

Not that there was much of anything for her to do around here.

She went to the kitchen instead, and dropped the Styrofoam containers of Chinese into the waste disposal unit. Then she scoured the fridge for something to eat. The fridge had a tendency to be empty, but there was a pack of apples that Azelma had grabbed at the corner store along with the Chinese takeaway. She took one and ran it under the tap, leaned against the counter and bit into it.

She'd taken a few more hungry bites of the apple when she heard the sound of footsteps on the landing. Instinctively she tensed. Years of living on her toes whenever she was alone had sharpened her sense of hearing and trained her to be more alert than the average girl of sixteen.

She put down her apple and leaned into the corridor.

When she heard the sound of the key in the lock, she scuttled closer to the door, and waited.

The key had a tendency to get stuck, so there followed a loud "Bloody _fuck!_" and a furious kick that rattled the door in its frame before it opened. Azelma stared blankly at her father, who was weighed down with a bag from Tesco clinking with beer bottles. He stared right back at her as he stepped into the narrow entranceway, shouldering the door shut, then paused as if suddenly unsure where to go.

Finally he settled for roughly shouldering Azelma aside, knocking her none too gently into the wall. "Don't stand in the way," he muttered by way of apology, and headed right for the kitchen, where he began to unload the beer bottles into the fridge. Azelma watched.

All but one bottle was refrigerated. The one that had been singled out was popped open, and her father took a great long swig before sweeping his arms out in a grand gesture, holding a long sigh of satisfaction. Then he noticed Azelma standing there. "What're you doing, then?"

She made for the counter. "Getting my apple."

"Oh, are there apples?"

"In the fridge."

"I didn't ask where they were. Did I say I wanted one? No. I've got this." He held up his bottle of beer. "Ain't hungry."

"Okay." Azelma picked up her apple and began to make her exit. Halfway out of the room, her father reached out and grabbed her arm. Azelma stopped and turned to face him grimly. "Yeah?"

Still holding onto her arm, he asked, "Did anyone come by asking for stuff?"

She shook her head dutifully. "Nobody."

He released her. "Huh. Good. Cos you know my supplies are starting to run short, and if anyone comes by askin' fer their custom-ordered items and I don't got them, they'll be miffed rather, won't they?" He looked at her pointedly, and Azelma shrugged.

"I guess."

"_No_. They will be, believe you me, kid." A swig of beer. There was only a small amount of liquid left in the bottle. "And you know who they're gonna be angry at, don't you?"

"At you."

"Yes, that's right. At me." Dad waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, why're you hangin' around here, anyway? Go to your room or something. Eat yer apple in there." Breathing a small sigh of relief, Azelma hastened to leave the room, but again a hand on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks. "You sure no-one came by, Azelma?"

She shook her head. "Nobody. Honest." She paused, then dared to add a syllable of elaboration. "Why?"

Her father appraised her a moment, then shrugged and let go, as a man who thought he'd seen something moving in the shadows only to let it go a moment later. "Nothin'. You're just acting all funny."

Azelma did not look at her father as she quickly made her escape. She shut herself into her small bedroom. It was cramped enough that her bed touched the wall at its head and foot, and besides that, all she had was an end table and kitchen stool that served as her desk, a throw rug, and a single shelf on the wall. Now she dropped onto the stool and bit into her fruit, chewing vigorously.

It was rare for her father to make any kind of observation about her besides noting her laziness, and chances were he hadn't decided to become a more sensitive, observant father for his one remaining child overnight. She wondered if her wandering mind were that obvious.

The door swung open, causing Azelma to startle. It was her father, looking down at her with an expression on his face that hinted towards considerable unhappiness. She swallowed and looked up at him in nervous expectation.

"You're acting funny, you are."

"I'm not." Azelma chewed at her lip, a nervous habit.

"Ah, shut up. I know when my own kid's acting funny." Her father crossed his arms and looked at her sceptically. "If anybody came by that you couldn't provide for, you know I'll hear of it soon enough … "

"_Dad_. Nobody. I swear."

He made a small scoffing sound, but finally turned away and ambled down the small corridor, probably towards the kitchen for another beer. Azelma waited one, two, three tense moments before hurrying to shut her bedroom door again, that single panel of wood serving as her only flimsy separation from the world, and even then it always bled through the cracks. Then she pressed her ear to the door and listened.

She could hear the sound of scuffing footsteps, and then, mercifully, the sound of the front door opening and shutting. Azelma breathed a sigh of relief, sliding down to the floor and hugging her knees to her chest.

The half-eaten apple, forgotten, sat on the desk and turned brown, doing just what was expected of it.

…

It was 6pm when Enjolras began to feel hungry again. He'd helped himself to a snack at some point around noon, but it hadn't been much and he hadn't really been hungry. Now that his stomach was growling, however, he decided his best option was to make himself a sandwich for supper.

Enjolras could manage a sandwich.

He put aside the fat Law textbook he'd been reading from and went down the corridor to Éponine's room, knocking lightly on the door. He had to knock twice before she answered, opening the door and looking at him expectantly. "Yes, sir? May I … ?"

"Oh, I was just wondering if you wanted something to eat, love," he said, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck and making her lips twitch in amusement.

Éponine shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm not very hungry, sir." Politely but pointedly, she shut the door, and Enjolras meandered over to the kitchen.

He had opened the fridge and was staring blankly into it, wondering what to put on his sandwich, when Éponine appeared in the doorway again, finger-combing her dark hair. He turned, shutting the fridge door and looked her up and down. "Hungry after all?" he asked. "Good, you can tell me what to put on these — "

"There is something I wish to request of you," she interrupted smoothly. "But if it is a great inconvenience for you, then you must tell me so."

"_Oh_," said Enjolras, caught off guard. "Okay, then." He spread his arms open wide. "Go on, then."

Éponine took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She paused just long enough to consider her request. Just how irrational was she being? She had always been impulsive, after all. Did she really want this? But no, she realised. She did want this. She might have been shattering what had been, for her, a strict doctrine over the past eight years, but she wanted it. Just one time. "I want to get drunk," she announced.

The weight of her statement hung in the air as Enjolras appraised her. She waited for him to refuse her. Ladies, after all, were not made for drinking. Drinking was frowned upon even for girls of her class, lowlife gutter rats. Instead, Enjolras looked her up and down and nodded. "Okay. We can go out to a pub if you like."

"Truly?"

"Why not? Well, I mean, I don't want you to get completely sloshed, but I'm all for going out to a pub." He gave her a teasing grin. "You've decided to get involved in the local life, I see. Try out the national pastime."

Éponine was perplexed. Women drank liquor in England, then? It was unbelievable. She wondered if they drank as much as the men. This world truly was a strange one. She had never really believed her father when he told her and Azelma that England was a nation composed of drunkards, but perhaps there had been some truth in his stories after all. She had learned some things about England in those years of education she'd had; she'd been taught its counties and a little of its history, but she'd never learned a thing about the culture in that strange nation across the channel, enemies of the French for so many hundreds of years. "I shall go fetch a hat."

"A hat? You don't need — "

"Couldn't I? I found one I quite liked among those clothes the La — Cosette gave me. There was an old hat of mine that I was rather fond of when I lived in Paris; I must have lost it at the barricades, and this one reminded me of it."

…

Ten minutes later, Éponine and Enjolras were walking down the street in the direction of Soho. It had stopped raining some hours ago, but the air was still damp and the streets were still wet. There were many puddles to step around. Éponine was lost in contemplation, her hands tucked into the pockets of the cardigan she was borrowing, when Enjolras suddenly stopped short in his tracks.

"Is something the matter, sir?" she asked, concerned.

"Hey? Oh, no, nothing like that. Er, I'm guessing you're of the drinking age, yeah?" When her brow creased, Enjolras elaborated for her. "You know, I can't believe I didn't think to ask you this before; I'm sorry Éponine — but, how old are you?"

"I'm seventeen," she answered.

"Oh." Enjolras resumed walking, Éponine trailing just behind. "Well, if you're seventeen … I mean, you haven't got any ID, but you won't need it … you can have beer and wine, but you can't have the strong stuff. Not until you're eighteen," he explained.

"I shall be eighteen in August," she protested. "And if it is June here, like it was in my world, then that means my birthday will come soon enough."

He paused briefly, looking her up and down. "Well, you can easily pass for eighteen, I'll tell you that. Tell you what: if you want to try the strong stuff — not that I'd advise you to have too much of it, seeing as you're not an experienced drinker — we're best off going to the Musain. They won't ask for ID if they see you're with me, and if you get asked, that'll be a problem, seeing as you don't have any. ID is identification, by the way," he supplied before Éponine could ask.

They turned and switched directions, Éponine keeping her eyes fixed on her toes. At some point on the short walk, she raised a hand to touch the cap placed lopsided on her head. It wasn't quite like the hat she'd worn for so many years back in Paris, stolen for her by Gavroche, for it had no brim and was plaid-patterned with a little red ball on top rather than a plain brown, but beyond that it was just like hers in size and style.

As they turned the corner onto Southampton Row, with the Musain now just across the street and a few yards down, Éponine heard Enjolras say, "All right, Éponine?"

She turned to face him as they prepared to cross the road, her body tensing as it always did whenever they crossed the street. Despite having spent several days in London now, it had been mostly in the confines of Enjolras' flat, and seeing the cars zipping along the street at such a pace made her nervous. But nerves or no, she nodded and smiled, the standard survival tactic. "I am."

"You're just very quiet is all." His voice took on a teasing lilt. "Usually you're bursting with questions."

"I am out to get drunk, sir," she interrupted smoothly. "When I find drinking repulsive. Perhaps that better answers your question."

That comment stunned him into silence, and not a word was spoken between them until they reached the Musain. They sat down at the bar counter, where, like Lily a few days ago, the bartender did a double take when he saw Enjolras with Éponine. "Blimey, Enjolras. Do mine eyes deceive me? I didn't think it was possible: you with a girlfriend." He passed the both of them small menu cards and winked roguishly. "A Scottish girl?"

Éponine had bent her head to scrutinise the menu, but now she looked up in confusion, not knowing why the bartender thought her to come from Scotland. Enjolras answered for her, luckily. "No, Éponine is French."

The bartender whistled. "Blimey, you're killing me here, Enjolras." He looked Éponine up and down, muttered something, then clapped his hands together. "Will you be wanting a bite as well?"

"Two, please," said Enjolras, just as Éponine opened her mouth to answer no, and the bartender handed over another two, larger menu cards before dashing off to the back rooms. Enjolras leaned over. "You need to eat _something_, Éponine; it's not a good idea to drink on an empty stomach. You get a worse hangover that way."

Her response was firm. "I care not for my own sake. I am not hungry, thank you, sir. I am here to drink." She put down the larger menu card and stared at the drink menu. At last she looked up at him helplessly. "Though I must say I do not know what to order. I only know I want something strong."

As if on cue, the bartender materialised back in front of them. "Something strong, you say, love?"

"Anything," Éponine deadpanned.

His response was entrepreneurial. "Something strong, you say? How about some St George's? That's whiskey, by the way."

Whiskey. Her father had drunken the stuff by the bottle, when they could get it, for it was not quite so inexpensive as ale. The thought alone was enough to make Éponine shiver involuntarily. She had to pause to remind herself why she was doing this: for one blissful night of forgetting, the ultimate opiate. She nodded. "Whiskey? Yes, that would do."

The bartender was looking at her sceptically, and Éponine tensed, wondering if he was doubting her age after all. She did not want Enjolras to get into trouble, for he, after all, was her escort. But instead the bartender said, turning to Enjolras, "You sure she's French? Cos your girlfriend sounds as much of a Londoner as you and I."

"I am half French on my mother's side," said Éponine, thinking fast, and the bartender nodded, offering her a winning smile. Feeling self-conscious, Éponine stared down at her hands, folded and resting on the bar counter.

Meanwhile, the bartender's attention turned towards Enjolras. "The usual, I presume?" In her peripheral vision she saw Enjolras give a single nod of affirmation, and he clicked his tongue. "Right, then. Be back in a mo'."

He proved to be a man of his word, returning not a minute later with a pitcher of what Éponine recognised as beer and an empty glass, for Enjolras, she supposed, but for her, there was only a very tiny glass only half-filled with whiskey, which he handed her. She looked at him questioningly, and he nodded at the whiskey. "I know an inexperienced drinker when I see one," he said, "and you're better off taking a half-shot for now. Free sample, if you will."

"I am an innkeeper's daughter, sir," she muttered, taking the small glass. She was aware that both the barkeep and Enjolras were watching her, and she flushed, taking a deep breath. She swallowed hard once, raised the little cup to her lips, trying not to gag at the smell of it, and tilted her head back.

Its odour alone was intense enough to make her want to retch, strong and powerful. The golden-brown liquid burned her throat on the way down and made her eyes sting and water. She gagged and spat the foul stuff back into the glass. "Wha-what is this?" she managed, once her throat had recovered enough to speak. She gagged again, and was relieved when the bartender grabbed an empty glass from the shelf and with the simple turn of a faucet, filled it with water. He handed the glass to Éponine and she took it gratefully, gulping it down in just a few slugs. On another day, she might have taken a moment to marvel at just how many luxuries the English in 2015 had available to them, such wondrous technology. The instant availability of water was one she was not yet quite used to. For now, however, she just wanted to ease the wretched burning in her throat.

"Whiskey," said the bartender pointedly, taking the tiny cup away from her. "Maybe something else, then? A half-pint of Stella Artois?"

Enjolras nodded supportively, finally pouring himself some of his beer. "Beer. I think that'd be best, Éponine," he said ever so helpfully.

But Éponine knew through her father that beer was not half so strong as whiskey. "A pint," she said insistently. "I should like a full pint, thank you."

The bartender raised an eyebrow but did not protest. "It's your order, love. Don't let this one boss you about. Give me a tick." Again he disappeared, and Éponine deflated. She glanced sidelong at Enjolras.

While waiting for the bartender to return, she asked, "Who is he? I do not know him from Paris, but he was on good terms with you."

"I'm a regular," replied Enjolras, sipping his beer. "Everybody's on good terms with me here. But that's Roger."

"And … why did he think I was Scottish? He had not yet heard me speak." She blinked in surprise when Enjolras pointed at her hat, and she reached up to touch it. "What, this? I'm afraid I don't follow, sir."

"It's a sort of Scottish hat," Enjolras explained. "Cosette, her dad took her to Edinburgh last summer for a week; she must have got it there."

Instinctively, Éponine stiffened at the mention of Cosette. Thankfully, the bartender appeared with her drink, also served in a small pitcher with an empty glass, and lingered just long enough to place them in front of her before sliding over to tend to a middle-aged customer with a tight set to his jaw that suggested he'd been waiting for a while.

Taking the pitcher, Éponine tipped it and poured herself her first glass. She took the cup in her hands, enjoying the cool moisture of it, and raised it in the air in a silent toast. She and Enjolras clinked glasses, then swiftly she raised it to her lips and threw her head back, drinking as much as she could in one gulp so as not to endure the smell of it.

The force of the drink made her cough, but its flavour was nicer, and she took a second mouthful before stopping for breath. She finally set the glass down on the table and let out a whooshing breath and a small laugh, earning her an odd look from the gentleman a few seats down. "I am out drinking," Éponine said aloud, struck by the reality of it. Then, picking up the glass, she drained what was left of its contents.

"Easy," warned Enjolras, as she hastened to re-fill her cup from the pitcher. She ignored him, naturally.

She drank, and exhaled. Two glasses later, and she realised that already she was beginning to feel warmed. Her limbs were a little looser, and the tips of her fingers tingled just so. She was a bit surprised, for she had not expected the alcohol to begin to affect her so quickly, but all the same, she looked over at the pitcher, wanting more. Perhaps it was the drink, or perhaps it was simply the fact that she _was_ drinking; she found herself relishing the freedom of what she was doing, enjoying the simple fact she had the power to lose herself for just this one night.

There was still enough liquid left in the pitcher to fill another half-glass of beer.

Just as Éponine was reaching for it, Enjolras let out a barely-audible moan as someone on the other side of her said in a bright voice, "Hello! Fancy seeing you here." She startled, nearly dropping the pitcher, and swung her head to see Grantaire sliding into the seat next to her.

"Hello, Grantaire," she said politely, and frowned, the words tasting strange on her tongue. She found she had to fumble and grab for them. "How … how do you do?"

Grantaire raised a hand to flag down Roger, the bartender, without taking his eyes off her. "I do a lot of things," he said. "But if you mean how I drink as much as I do … " — he spread his hands out — "then my answer to you is experience." He studied her. "I'm guessing that's your first beer? It's already starting to effect you." He finally seemed to note Enjolras, sitting on the other side of her, and nodded his head. "Oh. Hello, Enjy."

Enjolras grit his teeth. "I've told Gavroche a million times, don't make me have to start telling you too: don't call me _Enjy_."

Éponine giggled, perhaps a bit more loudly than she normally would, as Grantaire waved a hand in dismissal and turned his attention to the approaching bartender. He ordered a vodka and orange juice, and Éponine's smirk faded a little; vodka was strong, she knew. As strong as whiskey. But this was Grantaire, and she knew him better than she did the others. She also knew that he could hold his liquor. In a moment, and for some reason, seemingly much to Enjolras' ire judging by the tight set to his jaw, the alcoholic turned his attention back to her. "Ah, 'Ponine," he said, turning her name into a sigh. "You goin' by that yet?"

She shook her head, and set to pouring herself the last of the beer. "No," she replied. "Not yet." It was still jarring to hear _him_ use her nickname.

"Should," Grantaire replied, just as Enjolras tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and smiled at him.

"Sir?"

"Éponine, I'm going to order a sandwich," he said, and she noted he had not yet finished his first glass of beer. "I think you should order one too, all right?"

She shook her head. "Suit yourself, sir, but I am _not _hungry. No, I am not hungry at all, but I appre … app … " She shook her head again, this time to clear her mind. "I _appreciate_ your kindness." Éponine picked up her glass and, after a moment's consideration, drained it. She frowned at its emptiness. "Sir, may I have another pint?"

"You're already slurring some," said Enjolras hesitantly. "I dunno if it's such a good idea — "

"Let the girl order what she wants," said Grantaire at the same moment Éponine insisted, "But I _want_ to get drunk."

Enjolras sighed reluctantly, but flagged down the bartender, and turned in his seat a little so that his shoulders were hunched away from them.

Meanwhile, the pub was beginning to fill up with the early crowd. It would not be packed until about 7.30pm, but it was getting louder inside.

"So," said Grantaire as his drink arrived. He raised in to his lips and inhaled its scent before taking his first sip. "Out to get drunk, are you, love? First time, I'm guessing?" She nodded. "Surprised this one here's letting you. Normally he's the _responsible_ type, if you follow me. No more than a couple full pints a week, this one, and sometimes just a glass of wine."

Roger arrived with her second pint of beer but did not linger; he had to rush to accommodate the other customers. Éponine began to fill her glass from the pitcher. "And, you, sir?" she asked as Grantaire tossed back his head, downing a good deal of his drink. "Why is it you let yourself get drunk so often? I can see you're the, the same as in _my_ world."

"Same reason, as you I expect." He looked at her meaningfully. "To forget."

Éponine took her time in answering. "Forget what?" she said at last, not in the mood for delivering long sermons.

Already he was finishing off his drink. "You tell me," he said, and put the empty glass down on the bar counter with finality. "Right, I'm off." Grantaire reached into his pocket and fished for change, at last putting down a few coins, which he left next to the empty cup.

Enjolras turned back to them. "Already?" he asked.

"Feuilly and a couple o' the other boys and I are meeting in Soho for a round or two," replied Grantaire. "Tell Roger that's for him. Ta." He waved a hand and winked shamelessly at Éponine before climbing down from the barstool and walking out the door.

They spent the next few minutes in silence, Enjolras nursing his pint and eventually, his sandwich, Éponine slipping peacefully out of herself. She refused the half of sandwich offered to her. A bit shaken by the power the beer had on her, she took it a bit more slowly with her second pint, and when she was nearly done she felt warmed to the core and a little sleepy. She leaned against Enjolras a little, who had already paid the bill and finished his own pint. "Thank you," she murmured.

He blinked at her. "Er, you're welcome. It was nothing, really; beer's not that expensive or anything, and I can afford it."

"No," she said, shaking her head and creasing her brow. "No, no, no. Thank you for … _everything_." She nestled into his shoulder again, basking in the warmth of him. "You've been so good to me these past days, sir. I cannot thank you enough."

"Éponine, really. It's nothing. I'm glad to have you. Really."

"I know not what I might have done had you refused me shelter. Died, perhaps. Died again." And she laughed.

She was aware of Enjolras slipping his arm into hers. "Éponine, let's go, yeah? Let's go home, get you to bed."

"Home." She smiled, testing out the new word. "I like that. Yes. Yes, let's." She slid off the barstool, and stumbled at first, but she was not so very drunk that she could not walk, and in a moment she'd recovered. "You're very kind, Enjolras."

"Thank you. It's nothing, really."

"Kind and … " She thought for a moment. "Handsome," she said with finality.

He smiled softly. "Thanks, Éponine." Arm-in-arm, they walked out into the street, where the skies were still overcast, and began the short stroll home.

And then, a summer rain.


	13. Chapter 13

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

…

By the time they arrived at his flat, Éponine's feet were dragging and she kept raising her free hand to rub sleepily at her face. Enjolras smiled fondly at her, and fumbled in his pocket for the key to his flat. He slid it naturally into the lock, turned it, and at the _click_, he shouldered open the door, finally letting go of Éponine to allow her to enter the apartment before him.

She walked in, shoulders slumped, then made a beeline for the sofa and dropped down onto it, curling up on her side, head against the armrest. Her hat slid off her head and fell to the floor, but she did not seem to notice. She gave a contented little sigh.

Enjolras walked over to the nestling form, sitting on the edge of the sofa and gently shook her shoulder. "C'mon, Éponine. Let's get you to bed."

Her nose twitched and she swatted the offending hand away. "I wish to sleep," she mumbled.

"Yes, love," Enjolras said. "That's why you need to get to bed. C'mon, it's just down the corridor."

"Like it here." Éponine shifted, seeking a more comfortable position on the sofa. "I want to sleep. I'm very tired." There was a pause, as if she were waiting for him to get up off the sofa. When Enjolras made no such move, she cracked open one eye. "Please, sir, it's very comf … come … _comfort-able_ here." She had to forcibly separate the word into two parts for it to come out properly, and she licked her lips as if that could bring down the thickness of her tongue. "I like it," she said repeated.

"You want to sleep here?" He stood up and crouched by her head. He didn't necessarily see any harm in her spending the night here in the lounge, though he didn't see how she could possibly be comfortable, or warm. "You sure of that?"

She nodded, and rolled over a little so she was lying on her back. "It is raining." A pause. "It's very — soo …sh … _soothing_."

Enjolras took a moment to listen. "Yes, Éponine," he smiled. "You get your rest now, yeah? And I'm going to go to bed too."

Éponine rolled back onto her side and nodded, her eyes drifting shut again. "All right," she murmured. "All right, then."

Enjolras rose to his feet, pausing to pick up the fallen hat and put it on the coffee table, then quietly went to the cupboard. He opened it as silently as he could, wincing when it creaked loudly, and rummaged around the extra towels and sheets to find a small blanket. Draping it over his arm, he went back to the sofa and tucked it around Éponine's form. She shifted a little, then her eyes blinked open and she propped herself up on one elbow.

"Sir?"

"It's all right, Éponine. You sleep here. I'm only just giving you a blanket, love."

She blinked again, squinted, then gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. She made no signs of lying back down, so Enjolras settled himself on the edge of the sofa. Éponine smiled at him contentedly.

"Have I … thanked you yet, sir?" she asked, fumbling over the _th_ sound.

Enjolras nodded once, and she cocked her head to one side, thoughtful. At last she said, "You're very handsome, you know, Enjolras. Did you know that in Paris, your friends all called you _Apollo_?" She tipped back her head and laughed loudly, oblivious to Enjolras' eyes widening in astonishment. "I cannot claim to know a … a _thing_ of the, what are they called, the .. the … stories, the my … _myths_ of the Greh … Greeks. But I am told _Apollo_ was very _handsome_." She put extreme emphasis on every few words, and bobbed her head up and down upon uttering them, as if agreeing with herself. Then she began to relax back onto the sofa.

Enjolras was debating if now would be the best time to inform her that his mates teasingly called him Apollo, too, when suddenly, Éponine was sitting up. Impulsively, she took hold of his collar, her grip surprisingly sure for one so woozy, and kissed him sloppily on the lips. Before he could register what had happened, she let go, dropped back onto the sofa and nestled down. She sighed once, and then she was asleep.

He shot to his feet, shaking his head at the foreign feeling of the kiss. It had all happened so quickly, Enjolras had not had the time even to register what had happened. He was in no way prepared for or wanting of a romance with anyone. _She's drunk_, he told himself. _That's all. And now she needs to sleep it off_. Of course it made sense. People could be driven to do all sorts of ridiculous things when they were pissed, and meant nothing by them. He doubted Éponine would even remember kissing him come morning. She was going to sleep it off, and that was that, and he should get to bed too. Enjolras moved to go.

Even so, he paused for a moment, watching her in this moment, a snapshot of perfect peacefulness, and crouched by her again. Tenderly he tucked a lock of ebony hair away from where it fell in her face. "Sweet dreams, Éponine," he said, and then crept off to his own room, where he changed into his pyjamas and crawled into the warmth of his bed.

He fell asleep to the sound of summer raindrops pattering against the window, a lulling rhythm.

…

In the dream, Éponine was standing in the great lobby of the opera house. It was empty. She had many fond memories of the opera house, for Gavroche had helped her and Azelma sneak into countless shows. The lobby had gleaming marble floors and pillars towered up to the domed ceiling, which was ornate with paintings of harp-bearing angels lounging in the heavens and etchings of golden leaves. The air smelled sweet, of lavender and bread baking in the oven, and she did not question the fact that both smells were out of place in this setting, for this was a dream. She made for the red velvet divan, tucked into an alcove by a sweeping staircase, and lay down on it.

Next thing she knew, Marius was there, perched on the edge of the divan and smiling at her, a red carnation in his breast pocket. He was smiling at her.

He was smiling. At her!

How long had she yearned for him to turn such a smile her way? Of course, being her friend, Marius had smiled at her many a time, but not like this. This smile felt like it had been put on for her alone, as if all good things in the world were willing her to take it and claim it before it was too late, and she basked in its warmth. Éponine lay back on the elegant divan, and smiled back. It was the most natural thing in the world. "You're here," she finally said, breathless.

Marius leaned over her, brushing a finger across her cheek. "Yes," he said. "I am."

Éponine turned her head to the side. Dimly, she could hear the sounds from the world outside. She could hear London, the stream of traffic from the cars and buses zipping by, and the collective hum of conversation. But it was all so far away, and so she turned back to gaze up at Marius. He was occupied in pouring himself a glass of wine. At the foot of the divan was an end table she hadn't noticed before, small and circular with a marble top, and it held a bottle of expensive, sweet-smelling wine and two crystal wine glasses. He offered her one of the glasses, but she shook her head, propping herself up on one elbow. "No, thank you," she said. "I don't drink. You know that well."

He arched one eyebrow. "You were drinking not a few hours ago," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.

"Yes," agreed Éponine. "But that was different. I don't mean to again anyhow."

Marius raised the glass to his mouth and inhaled. "Very well." A sip, then he set the wine glass back down on the end table and leaned over her again, smiling. Placing a hand on her shoulder and instantly warming the place he'd touched, he eased her back down. "Rest, Éponine."

His lips. So full. So sweet. So close. Éponine began to lay her head back down on the armrest and arched her body, raising her head up again to meet him. His hand slipped under her, his thumb stroking the small of her back, as if to catch her before she even realised she was falling. "Kiss me," she breathed.

Marius tucked back a lock of her hair and toyed it between his fingers. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes," she said immediately, then paused and frowned. "Well, only if _you_ want to, that is. And only if you can mean it. You love _her_, after all, don't you?"

"I do," he said. "But you're here now. And if you wish it, I shall kiss you."

Éponine drew back slightly. Outside, the sounds of cars were getting louder. "I told you: I do wish it, desperately, so long as you would mean it." She paused and looked at him questioningly. "Would you?"

Marius considered. "I don't know," he said at last.

She dropped back onto the divan. "Then you mustn't bother." She tipped her head back, taking in the splendour of the opera house. It was starting to fade away, and somehow she came to the conclusion that the grandeur of this lobby would only stay as long as he was here. He kept it alive, kept her alive. Didn't he? As he stood to go, she reached out and grabbed his hand. "Stay," she begged.

Those lovely green eyes bore into her. "Do you want me to?" he asked again.

"Yes," she said. "Please." And she did want him there, wanted to be able to see him and know he was near, to remain with her always, whether he meant it or not.

Marius leaned over her and kissed her temple, but while it was full of gentleness and kindness, there was no passion in it. It was the kiss of a friend and nothing more. "Are you certain?"

She nodded, and he considered her. "But I cannot promise you love, Éponine. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes," she whispered, both stung and liberated by his honesty.

He stroked her forehead. "You want to keep living here," he murmured. "Poor Éponine. Is there no kindness for you in the waking world?" She began to shake her head, for he knew the answer to that, but he held up a finger, silencing her. "Listen,' he said, and the next thing she knew, he was gone. Then at last, the illusion surrounding Éponine fell away, and she was left in a featureless, empty plain, utterly alone but for the low din of conversation in the distance.

…

Azelma would never really know what got into her head that morning, but when she woke up, rolling over on her small mattress, it was with a strange feeling blossoming in her chest, and with a sudden motivation to do what was for her unthinkable.

Rising and creeping across the floor, mindful of which floorboards creaked, Azelma opened the door to her room just a crack and peeped out. The flat seemed to be empty. Good. Things were going her way, then.

She changed from her oversized sleep-shirt into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts. The house was empty but she was still on edge, so Azelma crept out of her room and made sure the lav was empty before slipping into Mum and Dad's bedroom. She approached the dresser, and after glancing over her shoulder out of natural nervousness, opened the top drawer and produced a small jewellery box. Holding her breath, she opened it. The silence of the room was pierced by the tinkling melody of Debussy's _Claire de Lune_. The ringing notes travelled up her spine, their prominence in the stillness of the room almost chilling.

Azelma stared into the box's contents, dizzied by the realisation of what she was doing. Then, deciding it was best not to give it a second thought, she grabbed a ₤10 note and slammed the lid of the jewellery box shut. She returned it to its place at the back of the drawer, hidden under the socks, slid the dresser drawer shut, and hurried from the room and quietly as possible, her fist closing around the money.

It was all right, she convinced herself. Dad wouldn't notice if just a tenner was missing; the jewellery box where he kept most of his dealer's money was practically overflowing with notes, and he'd soon have to find another place to keep it all. Or just nick a larger jewellery box.

Azelma hoped for the latter; she hated the fact that the safe, as Papa called it, played music whenever it was opened. It always made her nervous to take money from it for the customers or his bosses when he wasn't home.

Keeping her fist tightly closed around the ₤10 note, as if even slipping it into her pocket would make it disappear, Azelma slipped back out of the room and stepped into her shoes and out the door. Very quietly, she shut it behind her. She had no key to lock it with, so she had to hope that neither Mum or Dad would be home by the time she got back and lock her out. Then again, if they got back before her, she'd be in enough trouble that being locked out would be the least of her worries.

She hovered before the top of the stairs a moment. This, Azelma thought, was surely the most rebellious thing she'd done in her life. Not that it was an especially rebellious act in and of itself, but in hindsight, she'd never really done anything without being asked to do so — or without asking permission, anyhow — so what she was about to do now was a novelty to her. "To hell with it," she said, and trotted down the stairs.

Once out in the street, she kept to a brisk pace, down the street and all the way to Whitechapel Underground station. She stopped at a telephone booth and made the required phone call before entering the station. At the ticket booth, she slid her tenner over to the ticket-seller. "Er," she said, "two fares, please." She waited for the ticket-seller to say something, but he just gave a brief grunt of acknowledgement, stowed away the ₤10 note, then passed her two tickets and a small handful of change. Taking both, Azelma jingled the coins around in her hand before stuffing them into her pocket along with one of the tickets. The other she fed into the machine, and walked through the turnstile as her ticket was spat back out again.

A brief glance at the Underground map on the wall indicated to her which station to change at, and then she was on the escalator to the platform.

…

Éponine could not guess what time it was when she woke the following morning. Not that she was really in a state to care much for the time, for she woke with a spectacularly pounding headache and the light hurt her eyes. For some reason, she was curled up on Enjolras' sofa and not in her bedroom, and her entire body ached from lying in an uncomfortable position all night. She groaned, wanting to move but unable to summon the energy to rise. Raising a hand to massage at her throbbing temples, she lay back down.

Why did her head hurt so? Her fuzzy, hung-over mind took several moments to piece her memory back together and recall the events of last night. Ah, _yes_. Now she remembered. She and Enjolras had gone to the Musain, and she'd been out to get drunk. She'd had two pints of beer all to herself and then they had come back here. Her memory was still hazy after that point. She remembered curling up on the sofa and thinking it most comfortable, though how she could possibly have found it comfortable with her limbs all cramped like that, Éponine had no idea. And something else had happened, something of great significance, she was sure of it, but she couldn't for the life of her recall what it was.

Ah, well. It was a small matter; she was sure she would remember in time. If it really was so very important, than surely Enjolras would refresh her memory.

But now she was thinking, and she found that thinking made her head hurt more than ever.

Well. One thing was certain: Éponine Thénardier had no intention of drinking spirits ever again, under any circumstances.

With another groan, Éponine forced herself into a sitting position. A hangover was truly a dreadful thing. Had her father faced such hangovers as these? She couldn't understand how he'd been able to bear it, and why feeling so utterly rotten had not been enough to frighten him from drinking for a lifetime.

Her head continued to pound. No. No, those were footsteps. The sound of stocking-clad feet behind her. Holding her hand up as a shield from the light, Éponine turned to face Enjolras.

"Ah," he said. "Awake, I see." He was fiddling with the hem of his shirt, worrying the fabric between his fingers. His tone was more awkward than ever, and under any other circumstances, she might have found it amusing.

She nodded. "I feel _dreadful_," she said emphatically, and he chuckled.

"You were bound to have a rough hangover. Want some water? It'll help." He made for the kitchen before she could nod, his strides long and quick. Éponine shut her eyes. She heard the sound of the cupboard opening, of water pouring from the faucet. Then he was coming her way again, and she forced her eyes open. Enjolras handed her the glass of water and she drained it in greedy gulps, only stopping when every last drop she could reach had been drunken.

At last, she set the glass down, and began to relax back into the sofa. Her body ached, but she was much too tired to consider rising and travelling to her bedroom to rest. Éponine brought a hand to her temples again. Then, gentle hands on her shoulders. "C'mon, Éponine," said Enjolras. "Why don't you lie down in bed? You'll rest better that way. It's best you sleep it off."

She stared fuzzily at him. "What is the time?" she mumbled.

Enjolras glanced at the clock. "It's early, love. Barely half seven. Don't know why I'm up myself. Couldn't sleep, really." Taking her hand, he helped her up and guided her to her bedroom down the corridor. Though his movements were gentle and his voice was patient, the nagging feeling in the back of Éponine's mind that something important had happened between them last night began to grow in its persistence.

He left her in her room, asked her if she wanted to change into some pyjamas. Cosette's nightdress was still in the bag that she had donated, for Éponine had not unpacked it and put its contents away in the wardrobe; she still much preferred to wear Enjolras' men's pyjamas, oversized though they were. But Éponine shook her head as she settled down on the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. "I haven't the energy to change," she mumbled. "Oh, I do feel _awful_."

A wry chuckle, which frankly Éponine didn't appreciate. "That's what happens when you have two full pints. Anyway, you get some rest, Éponine. You'll feel better soon." He shut the door, leaving the room mercifully dimly lit, and she listened to the sound of his footsteps heading quickly in the direction of his own chambers.

Éponine lay there for a minute, feeling altogether very sorry for herself, and before she knew it she had fallen asleep.

…

At a Costa Coffee in Covent Garden, Cosette was sat with Marius and Combeferre. They'd coordinated this meeting yesterday afternoon, and a more childish part of Cosette thought that it made her feel very official and businesslike — meeting for coffee and discussing serious matters.

Of course, when most businessmen met up for coffee at Costa or Pret a Manger, they did not discuss girls who'd apparently died in the 19th century and woke up in the 21st, but no matter. Cosette felt that there was something psychologically satisfying in this meeting, a bit like drinking tea out of a mug or binge-watching movies late into the night under the afghan with Papa.

"Think of it, though," Cosette was saying eagerly, leaning forward, the food she'd ordered quite forgotten in front of her. "Okay, so maybe assuming that Éponine fell through time or whatever is a little, ah, far-fetched. I understand that. But" — she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair, a superior expression settling on her face — "I don't have any better theories. If _you_ have any, 'Ferre, do tell."

Combeferre broke off a piece of his croissant but made no move to eat it. "Be reasonable, Cosette. How could I possibly have any way of explaining the situation? I haven't the foggiest."

She nodded. "My point exactly. So, technically, my theory is plausible."

Combeferre sighed. "You have a _theory_ now, too?"

"Well … no." Cosette finally sipped at her drink and shrugged. "But I'm working on it. Anyway, I've gotten a fair bit farther than you have. I just can't make any more sense of it than you, all right? But I want to. You're the scientist, you're always on about how there's a rational explanation for everything. So, here's me. Trying to come up with one." She looked to Marius for support, but he just shrugged. She gave him a look, then turned back to Combeferre. "I want to make sense of it," she said again.

"Yes, well, so do the rest of us."

"I told you what Enjolras told me about the coin, yeah?" Cosette pressed, annoyed at Combeferre's cynicism and closed-mindedness.

Combeferre nodded. "Well, yes. But that doesn't mean Éponine _fell through time_, Cosette," he said patiently.

"I never said she fell through time per se," Cosette insisted. "But think of it _this_ way, then: so she's shot, and she _dies_, and then when she wakes up she's here in London her only signs of a bullet wound are a bit of scarring. Maybe if that revolution she was a part of was all in her head, then okay, we could say she's just mad. But it _wasn't_. And we're talking about a revolution no-one knows about here; it's not like she fancies herself an organiser of the Boston Tea Party." She leaned forward again. "I feel as if times like those in history, battles and revolutions with lots of bloodshed, are somehow more significant in the grand scope of things. All those lost lives have an impact on, well, the time vortex, if you want to think of it that way. Suppose there is some, well, timey-wimey explanation behind all this. It's not as if anything else makes sense." Again she looked to Marius for support, and he nodded in support.

"Cosette's right," he spoke up. "I'm not saying I believe Éponine fell through time, or whatever, but we're gathering the evidence and it's starting to seem as though she really did come from 1832." Marius cleared his throat. "That is, we don't have any other rational explanation. The entire situation is bloody mental. I'm just saying we don't need to stretch our imaginations as much as you think." This last he added for Combeferre's benefit, who was staring at them both with one eyebrow raised in unsuppressed scepticism.

"So you're saying, what, she's a time traveller? She got a hold of Marty McFly's DeLorean?" Cosette rolled her eyes as Combeferre shook his head. "Sorry. But I think it's _much_ more reasonable to state the truth: that we don't know a thing and may never be able to puzzle it out, simple as. You're just going to have to accept that."

"But that's so boring, not to mention pessimistic." Cosette paused and cocked her head to one side, thinking. "Oi. Did you ever hear back from Enjolras about how that visit to Éponine's sister's place went? I was wondering about that."

Combeferre shook his head slowly. "Noo … no, he never rang me back."

She got to her feet, beginning to gather up her rubbish. "I'm going over there."

Combeferre gaped up at her. "You're _what_? Why?"

Cosette shook her head. "Don't know, really, but I don't expect there's any harm in it. Maybe if we talked to Azelma. She might feel a little more comfortable talking to people she knows — well, I mean, not that she knows us personally but she knows enough about us through Gav. I don't suppose it will help, because of course, chances are she won't know a thing about Éponine, but who knows? Mind you, I'm not keen on running into Azelma and Gavroche's dad." She shuddered, and Combeferre knew well what she meant. None of them had met Gavroche's family, but they'd heard his stories. They knew he was involved in some dodgy dealings, though the boy didn't talk too much about _that_, specifically. "Now, do I have to look up the address, or are you going to save me some trouble and give it to me?"

Combeferre gave a resigned sigh. If there was one thing no-one in their little circle of friends could do, it was win an argument against Marius' girlfriend. She'd walked right into one of their meetings in the Musain's back room one day and he did believe that at least half of the boys were more than a little afraid of her, him included. He reached into his pocket and fumbled for his mobile. "I imagine it's still in my history … " He paused, scrolling for a moment, until the result came up. "Ah-ha. Here it is; thank you, Google." He handed her his mobile, and she recorded the address in her own.

Tucking her mobile back into her purse, Cosette clapped her hands together. "Right, I'm off."

Marius shot to his feet. "I'm coming with you."

She gave him a pointed look. "You better had."

…

When she woke again, the sun leaking in through the curtains suggested to Éponine that it must be early in the afternoon, or perhaps very late in the morning. She felt a bit drowsy, but her headache was all but gone and the light did not make her feel as though her eyes were burning. Éponine sat up, running a hand through her matted locks. She did not think she could fall back asleep, so she kicked off her blankets and climbed out of bed.

Éponine could hear Enjolras shuffling about in the living room. She opened the door to her bedroom very quietly and peered out to see him pacing. Again. "Good morning, sir," she called out.

He stumbled, making a small smile light her face, and raised a hand in greeting. "Éponine," he said. "Morning. You, er, feeling any better?"

She nodded. "Oh, yes, much better, thank you." Éponine plucked at the collar of her blouse. "Although, if I may be so forward, might I take another shower again? I do want to get clean." She heaved a little sigh of relief when Enjolras waved towards the lavatory door, and slipped into the bedroom she was borrowing just long enough to grab a skirt and the alarmingly tight-fitting blouse of the Lark's before stepping into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Éponine stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the tap that was marked red so that the water coming out was nearly scalding. The glass cabinet fogged over almost instantly, and the steamy environment helped to clear her mind. As she scrubbed her body down, Éponine took the time to mull things over, and push herself to recollect the events of the previous night.

She did remember curling up on the sofa, yes, she certainly did. And perhaps she might have babbled out a nonsense word or two — that was all right, no cause for alarm. She sort of remembered Enjolras sitting and talking with her a moment. That had been very nice. And …

When it dawned on her, the soap slipped from her hands and she nearly slipped herself.

She had kissed Enjolras.

Good heavens, she had kissed Enjolras.

On the lips, too.

She wondered if it were possible to spend the rest of eternity here, shut up in the shower. Oh, now _that_ would be ever so nice. But she startled when there was a gentle rapping on the door and Enjolras called, "Sorry, Éponine, I don't want to rush you, but I, er, well, I'll be needing the lav."

Éponine blushed, and sputtered out a "Half a moment!" as she turned off the water — the soap had long since washed off — and nearly slipped on her way out. She grabbed for a towel and dried herself as quickly as possible. Dressing did not take half as long as it normally would for the notable lack of undergarments. This Éponine found would take some getting used to yet. Her family had not been able to afford much in the way of undergarments in Paris, but even so she and Azelma had each had a couple of chemises and petticoats, and Éponine had even had a corset. She hurried out of the lav to see Enjolras lingering there, and she hastened to avert her eyes as she walked past him.

She meant to shut herself up in her borrowed bedroom again, preferably with a pillow over her face for shame, but something caught her attention as she made for it. She glanced into the kitchen, perhaps out of instinct because she was beginning to feel quite hungry, and took notice of the dishes and glasses that had begun to pile high in the sink.

And surely Enjolras did not mean for his dishes and cutlery to accumulate so? Decisively, Éponine positioned herself in front of the sink and turned on the faucet. The water came out with more force than she had expected, making her jump, but soon she had picked up the dish at the top of the pile and began to scrub at it with her fingernails and the small washcloth that hung from a hook on the refrigerator, for there wasn't any soap in sight. Then she used another washcloth to dry it. From here she went through the process of washing and drying each dish or glass or fork, and putting it aside on the counter, where she organised them so as to store them away once she was finished.

She had already washed a few dishes when Enjolras emerged from the lav and entered the kitchen. At once Éponine felt herself tense, became acutely aware of her heartbeat quickening. Her mind raced to grab at naïve hopes — perhaps, being a little tipsy himself, he had forgotten. Perhaps she only thought she had kissed him. Perhaps he didn't care. Perhaps, she thought with a little more hope, he had put it down to her drunkenness and thought nothing of it. Perhaps he had liked it.

She shook her head at her absurdity. She did not even know where that last thought had come from. Suddenly Éponine was aware that Enjolras had been speaking to her. Blushing anew, she forced herself to look up at him. "Pardon? You must forgive me, I was not paying attention."

Enjolras stuffed his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the doorframe. "I said, you don't need to do that."

"Well," said Éponine reasonably, surveying the considerable pile of dirty dishes, "someone must do it, given the state of things now. And if you are letting me stay with you for no charge, then it's the very least I can do. Say, have you any soap? I saw none and it — "

"No," Enjolras said, "I mean, you don't need to wash them by hand."

Éponine turned the water off and looked at him strangely. "I don't understand you, sir. How else shall they get clean? It's quite all right, it's hardly any work at all — "

Again he silenced her with a raised hand. "You can just put them in the dishwasher." He pointed to one of the cupboards beneath the counter, and opened it to reveal a very odd-looking shelf inside, all silvery and filled with racks.

"Now, sir, what good will that do? Putting the dishes in there shan't do anything else than put them out of sight! No, I shall wash them, if you don't mind."

"It's a dishwasher," Enjolras tried again. "If you put them in there, the … cupboard will wash the dishes for you."

She stared at him.

"It's a machine," he elaborated. "It does it for you. You don't have to wash the dishes by hand."

At last, Éponine shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't follow you. How can a cupboard wash the dishes? Why, that is the same logic a child has — "

A knock at the door cut her off, and for some reason, she tensed. Her gaze skirted over to Enjolras. Good heavens, not the Lark again. She did not think she could stand facing Cosette again. She thought she had made herself quite clear with her. Or Marius. Having to face Marius was even more of a fright.

"Who might it be?" she whispered nervously. "I don't want to … " But she trailed off, for she could hardly explain to Enjolras why she had no desire to see his friends.

But he had already walked out into the corridor, and with the dishcloth dripping wet still in her hand, she hurried to follow him. Enjolras opened the door, and both his and Éponine's eyes widened in surprise.

"Sorry for just dropping in on you like this," said Azelma.


	14. Chapter 14

.

**New World for the Winning**

Author's Note: Millions of apologies for posting this one a whole month after the last chapter. I hope some of you are still sticking around, but at least it's up in time for Christmas! Happy Christmas, everyone!

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

…

"Is this it, then?"

Cosette and Marius were standing in front of a four-storey brick flat complex. It was a sorry-looking building, they both thought, with the stone steps leading up to the stoop visibly eroded and the metal right-hand banister leaning to one side, rusting. The door to the building barely seemed to be hanging onto the doorframe. The curtains of most apartment windows were drawn, and windows shut as if their occupants were trying to hide their lives from passers-by.

"I guess so," said Cosette, looking down to the address she'd noted. Yes, this was it, 28 Crickhollow Street.

"Dodgy-looking place, isn't it?" Marius murmured.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Marius, _you_ live in Whitechapel."

"Yes," he agreed, "but my street isn't this bad."

"Fair enough." Cosette stared at the front door. "I don't know why," she said after a pause, "but I think I'm a little scared." She was beginning to regret her determination back at Costa Coffee. After all, she was about to visit the home of Gavroche's sister, and possibly speak to the father.

God help her.

Marius coughed meaningfully. "Maybe because of all the stories Gav has told about his dad? I mean, he gave the kid up when he was just a toddler, Cosette. What sort of man does that to his son? I don't blame you for being uneasy."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's probably it," she frowned, but somehow she felt her nervousness was more profound than that, though she couldn't imagine why. But then his hand was slipping into hers, their fingers intertwining, and he squeezed almost at the same moment she did. They glanced at each other with a brief grin before turning their attention to the steps leading up to the building's entrance.

Cosette drew out a deep breath. "Here goes nothing," she muttered, and began the ascent up the steps without letting go of Marius' hand, tugging him behind her a bit. They passed the threshold in tandem. Down a narrow corridor lined in mailboxes, up a flight of stairs, and down another bleak corridor to apartment number 102.

She stared at the door, the paint an ugly shade of ivory that was chipping in places, and with dirt stains that had accumulated over time. She could hear sounds coming inside the flat — someone was watching telly. She stared at the door but did not raise her fist.

"Do you want me to knock?" asked Marius softly.

"No. No, I can do it." Cosette hesitated another moment longer, made a fist and rapped against the door with her knuckles.

Inside the flat, the sounds of the television were abruptly cut short. Someone got up noisily from wherever they had been sitting, and Cosette thought she heard a muttered curse of annoyance. By the sound of the voice and the shuffling footsteps, the person coming to answer the door was a man. Cosette found herself stiffening, though she didn't know why. It seemed an age before the door was opened, and until then what she heard was cursing of the most vulgar sort. At last, it swung open to reveal a pot-bellied, middle-aged man in a stained undershirt and oversized face. He looked as if he had not shaved in several days, though that did nothing to hide the ruddy redness of his cheeks. The man looked quite startled to see a teenage girl and a young man in front of him, and he blinked several times. "What the 'ell do _you_ want?" he said at last.

Cosette straightened and let go of Marius' hand. She tried for a cheerful smile, but her heartbeat had picked up in its rhythm. "Hi. Um, is Azelma home?"

The man scoffed. "What ya want with her?" He raised his voice. "Who are you? How do you know my kid?"

Her smile faded. "We're friends of hers. You know, from school. I'm Lily, and this is … James. My boyfriend. Please, is Azelma in? I would have called, but she never gave me her number."

He narrowed his eyes. "No, it don't seem so. Instead, she gave you our bleedin' _address_!" The man looked momentarily distressed, and raised a hand to rake his fingers through his thinning hair. But then his demeanour became suspicious again, and Cosette couldn't help but take a step back. "Why the 'ell don't I believe you?" he demanded.

She swallowed, glancing quickly at Marius. _Help me out here_. But Marius looked just as uncomfortable as she. Cosette swung her gaze back to the man. "I couldn't say, sir," she said in a voice that may have been a little high and a little faint.

"Huh. Cos you realise Azelma ain't been to school in two and a half years, don't ya? If you're her _friends_ — if that kid was somehow capable of even making bloody friends — then what the hell took you so long in comin' by to pay her a visit, eh?" He grinned. It was not pleasant.

"No, of course," said Cosette, nodding vehemently. "It's just, well, she told us before she stopped coming to school that … her parents didn't take too well to visitors. So we sort of lost touch, but the other day I was saying to James here" — her elbow found its way to Marius' ribs — "'God, we haven't talked to Azelma in _ages_, have we? I think we had best pay her a visit, y'know, see how she's doing.' So here we are."

He grunted. "Huh. Well. Ain't that funny. Don't think my kid ever said anything about having any _friends_." He gave this last word a sneer, as if repulsed by the idea. The look of disgust did not fade as he stared at them, and Cosette gave Marius another quick glance.

_My God, say something, you __idiot_. __

Marius seemed to sense this at last, but nevertheless just shrugged. Cosette would have trodden on his toe if she'd been able to come up with a way of doing so subtly, but his lack of response seemed to satisfy Azelma's father.

"Well, I've told ya," he said, "she ain't home. You haven't come and seen her in ages and she ain't said a word about either of ya. So if I were you … " He trailed off, his sneer morphing into something more threatening. "I would steer clear o' this place if I were you. What's a pair of posh darlings like you doin' at a school in the East End, anyway?"

Marius opened his mouth, but Cosette, of-course, was quicker. "Well, Mum and Dad wanted me to go to a school for girls, but let's just say I wasn't doing very well on my exams, so I got sent here instead. Same with James. Except his parents wanted to send him to a boys' boarding school." It was a pathetic lie, and internally she cringed.

Those bloodshot eyes narrowed dangerously again. "Well, you heard me, anyway. Clear out!" And he promptly slammed the door shut.

Marius and Cosette stood there a moment. "Well," she said after a moment, "in hindsight, that could've gone a whole lot worse, I suppose." Marius turned, beginning to trot down the stairs, clearly wanting to take leave of the building as quickly as possible, and Cosette wasn't going to argue. She hurried to keep up, and in a few paces they were walking side-by-side again on the street. "_Really_," she said. "I mean, we didn't get to talk to Azelma, but — "

"Exactly," Marius interrupted. "It was a wasted effort."

"Okay, I admit it was at that. And we have a problem. I don't know if we ought to risk coming back. What if her dad answers the door again?"

"We'll have to get Gavroche to arrange a meeting," said Marius reasonably.

"I guess so." Cosette suddenly stopped in her tracks. "Oh, _no_. Oh, my God, I am such an _idiot_."

"What? What's wrong?"

She began walking again, rubbing her temples. "I wasn't _thinking_. I mean, I was, but I just said the first thing that came into my head … shite, Marius, what if he asks her about us when she gets home? I don't think he believed us fully; he's sure to interrogate her. And we didn't use our real names, so she can't even use what Gav has told her about us to improvise. James and Lily." She sighed. "Look, I was thinking of that waitress at the Musain, and then my brain went into _Harry Potter_ mode."

"So you're worried it'll get her in trouble?"

Cosette nodded. "Come on, let's go round to your place and ring Gav. The sooner we can organise a meeting, the better."

…

Azelma stood on the other side of the threshold, rocking back and forth on her heels. She was chewing her lip. At last, Enjolras stepped aside. "Well, I guess you want to come in?" he said, and she nodded, stepping into the flat with a ducked head. Once Enjolras had closed the door, the redhead looked around, nodding.

"Nice place you got here," she said, nodding. "I sort of thought it'd be posher though." She pointed to the sofa. "Can I sit down?"

Enjolras nodded hastily. "Please, go ahead. Can I get you something for lunch? I mean, you must be hungry."

Shaking her head vaguely, Azelma's gaze skirted over to where Éponine was standing. The brunette's eyes were wide and she had a hand pressed to her mouth. Dark brown eyes met those that matched them in kind, as if looking for an answer to some question that had not yet been posed. Her sister's eyes bore into her, until at last Éponine had to look away. She was not used to seeing Azelma being capable of holding someone's gaze for so long. She had always been such a skittish little creature in Paris, and while Éponine had observed that much of her nature was the same, here in 21st century London she seemed more defiant, somehow.

At last Azelma perched on the arm of the sofa. Éponine found herself standing there dumbly, and Enjolras was left somewhere in the middle. At last he hurried off to fetch two chairs so that he and Éponine could face their visitor. As he dragged them over, Éponine said, "Forgive me, but I did not really expect you here. I'm not altogether sure what to say."

Azelma's gaze flicked back and forth, and once again she'd become a nervous little animal. "'S'all right," she said. "Seriously, I don't really know what to say either. I just wanted to come here, I guess. And talk."

Enjolras arrived with the chairs, carried across the room from the dining table. Éponine dropped quickly into the one he'd placed just behind her and leaned forward. Enjolras sat too. She glanced at him quickly and saw that Azelma seemed far more interested in speaking to him than she was to her. How strange that this could both sting and feel a relief. Éponine did not know what to say to her, this girl who both was and was not her sister.

It was Enjolras who broke the silence. "So, Azelma. I reckon you wanted to talk more about Éponine, am I right?"

A nod.

He frowned. "How did you find my flat, by the way?"

"I rang Gav," was the deadpan response. She looked down at her oversized shirt and gripped the fabric in a fist, which she clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched. There was a long, drawn-out pause in which nothing was said, and Éponine was about to gently encourage her as she would have done with the sister who knew her when Azelma finally looked up. "Look, like I said, I don't know why I even came, really. I'm sorry for kicking you two out that day; it's just…" She sighed. "I mean, obviously I haven't been able to get the whole thing out of my head. My sister, who bleedin' died somethin' like seven years ago, turns out to have come from the past and shows up on my doorstep. And you seem to bloody _know__ me_," she added, turning to Éponine.

Éponine gave a dry laugh. "You are my sister, 'Zelma," she said softly.

"See?" said Azelma, throwing skinny arms in the air. "That's what I mean. I know my sister was ten and you're seventeen and it's been years, but I _still_ _remember her_. That's exactly the sort o' thing 'Ponine would have said. And listen, both of you: Mum and Dad don't know I'm here. I don't think it a good idea if I stay too long. God knows when they might get home. I just want to know more, I guess." She fiddled some more with the hem of her shirt. "What I'm trying to say is" — she looked Éponine in the eye — "I think that I might possibly believe it. Believe you." A beat. "I dunno. I guess I'm here today to try and decide."

Enjolras hesitated. Then he leaned forward and said in that kind tone of his, the one that Éponine had not often heard in Paris but had come to realise suited him very nicely, "Azelma, listen to me. None of us really know … what to think. Okay? But I reckon brainstorming is what we need, and if you could help us in any possible way, then all of us would appreciate that. Éponine especially, I think." He looked over at her, and Éponine nodded. "Now, from what Gavroche has told me about your dad, I totally understand that being here without permission makes you nervous, so if you want to leave, if you feel like you've been gone too long, that's okay. Or, if you'd rather go out somewhere, if there's a Costa around where you live … "

Azelma shook her head, but a small smile ghosted over her face. "I'm all right here, thanks. That is, if you're okay with it. I didn't mean to intrude on anything." Her eyes flitted nervously from Enjolras to Éponine and back again.

"Goodness, no!" said Éponine too suddenly. "That is to say, you have not _intruded_ on anything. If I am to be honest, Enjolras and I were not really doing very much … " She glanced over at him and bit her lip. "Why don't you and I talk, Azelma? It's all right if you do not believe my tale; that I _travelled through time_, as I believe it has been put. It has been days for me, and I cannot make sense of it myself. You need not believe me. It would not hurt me if you thought me mad."

Muttering something about giving them some privacy under his breath, Enjolras slapped his knees lightly and got up, retreated into his chambers. Éponine watched him go. Azelma did, too, whirling around and watching his retreating back. She began to squirm nervously until Éponine came over from the dining chair to the sofa. Then she stilled and smiled haltingly. It was a meek little smile, so very much like Azelma. "It would not hurt me," said Éponine again, even though she was certain Azelma could sense it was a lie.

"But if I'm your sister," Azelma said, and for a fleeting moment Éponine's heart swelled with hope. "To you, anyway."

"But to you … your sister died."

"Yeah."

Éponine hesitated. "Azelma, when we went to your apartment you told us that you grew up in

… Weymouth, was it?"

"Yeah, Weymouth. And apparently you grew up in a town called Montfermeil." Azelma seemed to stumble over the French word, an oddity to Éponine for she still registered all her words in French. A pause. "In the 1800's."

"We did." Éponine said in a faint voice, then shook her head violently. "Weymouth. It isn't very far from here, is it?"

"Not _that_ far. About two hours by train, maybe. Maybe two and a half. I dunno. It's not like I've gone back, now, is it?"

Éponine smiled faintly. "No, I don't suppose you would have … now, listen, Azelma. This idea has only just occurred to me, and it might be foolish — in fact I'm more than half certain it is — and it pains me to ask this of you, but … " She trailed off and took a deep breath. "I want to go there," she blurted. "And I would very much like it if you came."

Azelma's mouth dropped open. "What, to Weymouth? What for? What do you want to see?"

Éponine shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps you could show me where the inn used to be, and where you and — your sister went to school. Perhaps, if it would not be too much for you, you could show me where she was buried?"

Azelma got to her feet and began to pace the small area nervously, one hand fluttering about her mouth like a wounded bird. "Oh, God, I don't know. I just … I can't just _leave_ and it's _far_, to go would be a whole _day_" Her twitching fingers found the hem of her shirt again, and she balled up most of the fabric in her fist, the shirt riding up to reveal a stretch of pale skin. "But I mean, listen, this is just a lot for me, okay? What good is going to _my_ hometown going to do? You come from the 19th century, and if I were you, I'd want to go back. I'd want to get back home! Going to Weymouth ain't gonna help; I can't help you get back. I don't even know why I came here. I don't _know_. My sister's _dead_. I want to go home. Dad's gonna bloody kill me, he'll be proper fuming if he gets home and I'm not there … " She made for the door, and Éponine almost let her go.

Almost.

As the door was opening, she called out, "Wait!"

Azelma turned. Her chest was heaving, and by her red cheeks, she looked on the verge of tears. "_What_?" she demanded.

"I'm not asking you to help me go back, Azelma," said Éponine softly. "And I'm not asking if I might replace your sister. I do not mean to."

She regarded her solemnly, her head shaking back and forth. "Then what do you want? What good is going to Weymouth to you, eh?"

Éponine lifted a shoulder. "I don't know, truthfully. But I do believe there is a puzzle of some kind at hand here, and I mean to solve it. I believe there must be some reason I find myself here now, some explanation. I should think that something of this proportion could not have happened by mere coincidence, nor, if I may say so, by the will of God."

Azelma began to wander back to the sofa. "I can't help you there. I know as much as you do."

"Indeed. Which is very, very little. And perhaps there is no way for me to understand, but I mean to try. You were my sister in my world. It would mean terribly much to me if you might help."

She bit her lip. "I'll get back to you," she said at last. "I'll ask Gav for Enjolras' number. Do you know what a phone is yet?"

"Enjolras explained it to me, but I don't fully understand how it works."

Azelma grinned. "You've got a lot of learning to do, you have. Ah, sod it. Maybe I can help you with that." She pushed the door open all the way, passed the threshold, and shut it behind her. Éponine waited, listening to the sounds of her sister's footsteps going down the stairs.

She soon found herself wandering over to the bookshelf, although _Jane Eyre_ was in her bedroom, scanning the spines again. She had not yet thoroughly examined Enjolras' collection of academic books, but now she read all their titles. Most were Law textbooks so very thick she couldn't imagine how he managed to carry them to and from university each day. There were a few smaller textbooks with labels like _Biology Year 11_ and _History Year 10_, but tucked between these two volumes was a thin little textbook that she found herself pulling out from the shelf.

_French Grammar Year 7_.

Its cover was a little worn, but it was not very battered. The book did not look as if it had been studied very many times, and Éponine found herself chuckling. But then she remembered what Enjolras had told her — that she was speaking English, even though she understood everything as French. She was speaking a different language, one she knew only two or three words of, without even knowing it. It was just another puzzle piece in the entire mystery of her situation, but presently she leaned against the shelf and opened the little textbook to a random page.

She found herself staring at a page of sentences in French, which were subsequently translated into English, and then broken down to demonstrate the tenses and conjugations that had been used to construct the original sentence.

The original French appeared in red. Éponine didn't understand a word of it.

…

Marius' flat was small and cramped, and the heating was rubbish in the winter, and the paint on the walls was an awful colour, but it was a sight nicer than Azelma's place. Having rung Gavroche and left a message when he didn't answer, they were now seated in the tiny living room, sipping at Snapples in silence.

"Right," Cosette suddenly said with dramatic flair. She hopped up from her beanbag chair. "A proposition."

Marius looked at her blankly. "You … have some kind of proposition?"

Cosette stuck out her chin. "Well, yes, I do. And it's an absolutely reasonable one, I might add." She clasped her hands together. "I suggest we recap until we hear back from Gav. Brainstorm a little, too, maybe. But we've got to review what we know. With our information, we can, I dunno, go and talk to someone who might be able to help us."

"Someone who can help us? Like who? This whole thing's a mess, Cosette." Marius rolled his eyes.

"I've been thinking about all that, actually." She beamed. "So, it's agreed. Let's review then, shall we?" Cosette perched on the armrest of the ratty sofa Marius had picked up at a second-hand shop. "Have you got a pen and paper about? You'd better take notes."

…

Éponine sat on the sofa a long time, her fingers brushing across the page, trying to sound out the French words as though that would somehow bring them to understanding. It didn't work.

She did not want to keep this newest discovery to herself. She needed to let it out, to share it, to relieve herself of some of the weight of it. And there was only one person, really, that she could speak to: Enjolras.

But how could she even look at Enjolras, behave with him the same way as before, when she had _kissed_ him? Why had she done that? How could she have done? Not only had her inexplicable behaviour created a new difficulty between them, but she had betrayed Marius. It was Marius she loved, whom she had always loved. She had loved him since she was thirteen. It was Marius of whom she had dreamt just last night, of his full lips on hers, of his tender green eyes soaking in the sight of her.

Beautiful, romantic, stupid Marius, who had scarcely paid her the time of day. Marius, who loved Cosette, would never love Éponine. Beautiful, romantic, stupid, unattainable Marius.

She could have laughed at the great irony of it. Marius had never been hers, and she knew it, had known it for a long time. She'd been playing a stupid game with herself, yearning for him, the dog chasing its own tail. In Paris, she never would have been able to have him. And now here she was in London, two centuries later with no foreseeable way back home, and her Marius was further away from her than he'd ever been.

Enjolras, on the other hand, was different. He was kind, and while Marius had been that, he'd never truly wanted her. Enjolras might want her. Possibly.

Or at least, he didn't seem to mind her being around him, living with him. She liked Enjolras, Éponine had to admit to herself. She liked him very much.

He was kind, and yes, he _was_ rather handsome. In fact, he was extremely handsome. There was no denying it. And he might even want her.

And he was here. Just down the corridor.

With a newfound surge of confidence, Éponine got to her feet, French grammar book in hand, and went to knock at his bedroom door.

He answered. His curls were rumpled and he looked as though he'd gone back to sleep earlier. At the sight of him, Éponine suddenly didn't want to talk to him about the book, not just yet. She smiled at him. "Good afternoon, sir. Did I … catch you at an ill time?"

Enjolras shook his head. "Nah. C'mon in, Éponine. Or I mean — " He shook his head. "Azelma left a while ago, yeah?"

She nodded. "Yes." She did not elaborate further.

"Why don't we go into the living room?" he proposed, and she nodded, allowing him to lead her to the sofa. "You hungry?"

"Famished," she confessed.

"Here, I'll make something. Or at least, I'll try to do it without burning the building down," he quipped, and Éponine smiled politely. Enjolras made for the kitchen and Éponine followed him, lingering in the doorway.

"Sir," she began as Enjolras rummaged through the cupboards.

"Éponine," he interrupted. "You don't have to call me _sir_, you know. We're friends."

"But you are a gentleman," she objected out of instinct. "And I am less than a commoner. It would be most improper!"

"In 1832, maybe," he replied, standing on tiptoe to retrieve something from the top shelf of the cupboard. "This is 2015, Éponine. You don't have to worry about that. Just call me by my name."

"But — "

"Please. It makes me feel awkward."

"Very well," Éponine blushed, "Enjolras." She burst out giggling at the strange liberty of using his name, of truly tasting it.

Enjolras was holding out a small cylindrical container of something. "Bean soup? What d'you think?"

She nodded. "That would be most lovely." She waited for him to open the container with a strange tool and pour it into a pot before speaking again. "Enjolras. There is something I must tell you."

He stopped to look at her, likely sensing the note of fear in her voice. "Yeah? What is it, love?"

_Love_. "I'm afraid I found myself looking at your bookshelves again, and, well, I picked up this little book about French grammar. I looked at the French words … "

He knit his brow, temporarily abandoning the soup on the stove. "Yeah?"

"And I didn't understand a word," she whispered.

Éponine didn't really know what happened next. She must have tuned out, her mind drifting off. Because the next thing she knew, his arms were around her, protective and comforting. She allowed herself to go limp in his grasp for a moment, enjoying the feel of it. Then he had let her go, and was holding her at arm's length. "I'm sorry," he said at last, and she nodded, biting her lip against the threat of tears.

"I really can't go back, can I?"

"I don't think so, no."

"Then" — she sniffled — "what am I to do?"

His smile made her breath catch. "You know you're welcome to stay here, right?"

Éponine blinked, then nodded, for somehow that made sense. It was as if she had always known it. It was intuitive, really — of course she would stay here, and of course she was welcome. "I'd like that," she finally managed, and Enjolras nodded.

"But we'll still figure things out," he said. "If that's what you want."

She nodded, then startled as the moment was interrupted by a harsh blaring sound. "What in the name of heaven is _that_?" She moved to stick her fingers in her ears. "It comes from your pocket!" she exclaimed.

Enjolras went pink, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve the small, panel-like device called a phone. "Sorry about that," he said, tapping it and returning it to his pocket. "That was my mobile. I hung up." She frowned. "I, er, cancelled the call. Cut it off," he explained, and she nodded slowly without really understanding.

Enjolras moved to return the device to his pocket, but then it was his turn to frown. He blinked several times, his brow knit in confusion as he looked at the mobile again. "Holy bloody shite."

Éponine tried to see. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's my _parents_."


	15. Chapter 15

.

**New World for the Winning**

Author's Note: There are lots of amazing bookshops along Charing Cross in the real world, but the one mentioned in this chapter only exists in my imagination.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

…

Enjolras had never had a very good relationship with his parents, not even as a child. Almost as soon as he was weaned, parenting duties had been passed on to his nanny, a Puerto Rican woman named Luisa. When he was still very young, Enjolras' parents would sometimes do things with him, like take him out to the Victoria and Albert museum or on walks in Hyde Park, and they'd have supper together five of seven nights a week. But he'd been a solitary, stoic child and had preferred the time he had alone to going out with his parents.

By the time he was eight, the outings had long since passed and Enjolras barely saw his parents. He didn't really care much for Luisa, nor she for him. She was just there to walk him to and from school, and be there at his house six days a week to make sure he didn't set a fire or kill himself climbing the windowsill. She showed little warmth and was brisk and efficient in everything she did. In the evening, he would go up to his room to play Sonic the Hedgehog, and sometimes do his homework, while Luisa watched BBC Four in the lounge until 10pm, at which time her workday ended and she could take the Underground home to South London.

Luisa had been dismissed when Enjolras turned thirteen, an age at which they felt he was quite capable of looking after himself. He didn't need to worry about meals because they had a cook in the kitchen seven days a week. He had long since begun taking himself to school. Once in a while his father would pop by his room to give him some advice on being a man, which Enjolras would respond to with a vague "Yes, thanks, Dad." By his teens, he only saw his parents at meals once or twice a week, and for the most part they ignored each other, staring down at cell phones while they ate. His parents hadn't the foggiest notion he'd been avidly reading up on politics, history, the class system, and all the injustices in the world for the past few years. They didn't know he had come to resent his upper-class lifestyle. They didn't know how much he had come to resent his very own parents.

So it came as a shock, when, in Enjolras' last year of secondary school, he announced he had no intention of taking Medical Science at Cambridge – that in fact he had no intention of applying to Cambridge at all. As they'd sat there in shock, he'd then more or less made known all the opinions he'd kept secret, and it hadn't gone over well. His father had gone red-faced and furious, his mother had burst into a lecture about their reputation and _what the neighbours and Daddy's business partners would think_, and Enjolras hadn't cared. In the end, they'd announced that he was no longer welcome under their roof, effective the day he turned eighteen. Which hadn't mattered because Enjolras, who couldn't wait to move out of his posh Knightsbridge neighbourhood, had already gotten himself into UCL and had secured himself a spacious flat in Bloomsbury not a mile away from campus. He'd met his flatmate Stephen over Facebook, a decent kid from Manchester who'd gotten into UCL with a scholarship. It was Stephen who had made all the arrangements with the landlord, as he was already eighteen.

And that had been that. On the day of his eighteenth birthday, Enjolras had packed up his things and had taken a taxicab to the flat in Bloomsbury, where he'd been living ever since. He was 21 now, and had spoken with his parents a total three times since he'd moved out. The last time had been about eleven months ago, and even that had just been a quick chat on the phone.

So there really weren't many words for his surprise when he saw that he had a missed call from _Mum_.

Now, a dazed Enjolras excused himself to his room to return the call, claiming he'd just missed the phone. The conversation was brief, and when Enjolras came back out, Éponine was waiting for him patiently in the sitting room.

"So, yeah," he said. "That was my mum. Sorry about that, it's just, I don't really hear from her very often."

"Do you have an ill relationship with her?" Éponine asked politely.

"That would be an understatement, yeah."

"That's all right," she replied, cracking a smile. "I've an ill relationship with my parents, too." And then she'd burst out laughing, a genuine, hearty sound. When she'd recovered, she straightened, looking up at him. "And what did she say? Was she… contacting you to see how you fare?"

"Nooo," Enjolras said slowly. "She wants me to meet her tomorrow. For tea."

"Oh. Well, that's very nice, then. And shall you take tea with her?"

"At Harrods."

She gave him a blank look, and he explained.

"Harrods is a posh department store in Knightsbridge. They've got this ridiculous tearoom on the top floor. I bleedin' hate the place."

"I see." Éponine nodded slowly. "So you shan't be going then."

"Oh, I'm going. Can't back out of it. When my mum wants something, believe me, she gets that something. Especially since we haven't spoken in almost a year. Anyway," Enjolras raked a hand through his hair, "I was actually wondering if you'd come with me?"

Éponine stared. "I? To, to take tea with your _parents_?" she'd sputtered.

He nodded hopefully, but she was taking none of it.

"Oh, but I couldn't! You must _know_ I couldn't, why, I could never – a girl of my class taking tea in a tearoom for the rich, with the parents of a boy of your class! Forgive me, but I simply don't see how that would be possible. I'm sure I would never be allowed in, and I should think your parents would be most disapproving of such a situation. Why, I've never even taken tea before. It's not a very French thing to do, you know. You shall have to go alone, and I will wait here if I might." Éponine crossed her arms.

"Please? Things don't… work the same way they did in 1832. They're not allowed to just kick anyone out of places, and the class system's not as defined as it used to be – mind you, it's still very much there, it's just… Éponine, please? For me?"

It had taken some wheedling, but she finally relented, when he agreed to walk there. It was a long walk, but perfectly doable. Even so, she had pointed out matter-of-factly, "I'm quite sure your parents will simply despise me, if I may be so bold."

Enjolras cracked a smile at that. "Oh-ho, that they will. And that'd be a good thing for you, too. Believe me, if my parents liked you, then I wouldn't."

…

And that was how Éponine and Enjolras found themselves standing in front of one of London's most ostentatious department store**s**, in the best clothes they could find. Enjolras had managed to dig up a collared shirt that didn't look half-bad, and Éponine had found a nice-looking dress of Cosette's in the bag of donated clothes. She'd brushed her hair a certain way, and altogether looked quite lovely.

The walk to Harrods had been long, and Enjolras was grateful that he'd thought to leave well in advance. Éponine kept stopping in shop windows, gazing at the displays with enormous eyes, questions pouring out of her so quickly Enjolras didn't have time to answer them before something else captured her attention. She had gone back to being her excitable self, with the fascination (and attention span) of a child, as if the past few difficult days had never passed.

Now Éponine was staring at a single purse in one of the display windows, and Enjolras placed a hand on her shoulder. "C'mon, Éponine, we'll be late."

She didn't move. "I thought you did not care about being late. Why is there only a single handbag at this display when there is room to show off so much more? It seems rather silly to me".

"Because," said Enjolras, "this is Harrods." He held the door open for her, and her mouth dropped open as she entered the grandiose shop.

"Oh, but this is marvellous!" she exclaimed. "Do people truly shop here?" They began to head for the escalators – Enjolras wasn't ready to take her on a lift yet, and besides, the enclosed space would just make her feel claustrophobic.

"They really do," he said. "Posh people and tourists. Every day."

"Good heavens. And it's enormous! So many things!" Éponine twirled around in an excited circle and grabbed a scarf that was on display, its price tag reading ₤225. "I've never seen such a large shop in my life. Why, it must sell everything – books and clothes and jewellery and toys and chocolates and … " She trailed off. "This is wonderful!" And then she stopped in her tracks. "Oh, but what a child, what a _fool_ I am. None of this is meant for me."

Enjolras frowned at her. "How do you mean?"

"I mean … " She sighed. "I should not have come after all. Your parents, I am not of their kind. Why did I allow you to talk me into this?" Éponine groaned, and her brow creased in worry. "And when they see that you are with a girl of my class, I should think that they shall be most upset with you. Is it much too late to turn back? I… I could wait outside; I would not mind." She bit at her thumbnail.

Enjolras took her gently by the shoulders. "Hey. Hey, Éponine. Listen to me." Her gaze wandered up to meet his, and she bit her lip. "You've got absolutely nothing to be nervous about. My parents aren't the sort of people you ought to be worrying about. Okay?"

She nodded slowly, then opened her mouth to protest. With a finger to her lips, he cut her off. "C'mon, love. Don't you trust me?"

He dropped his hand away, and she faltered for a moment, then nodded confidently. "But of course I do."

He smiled. "In that case. Come on, then."

She smiled back, a real grin, then allowed him to lead her through the shop, and in a moment it was as if their little exchange had never occurred.

After a ride up the escalator, through which Éponine marvelled at the "moving staircase," they finally found themselves at the entrance to Harrods' tearoom. Éponine craned her neck to take in the high ceiling with its gilded gold designs and crystal chandelier. They were approached by a man in a pressed white uniform. "May I help you?" he asked in a clipped posh accent around a thin smile.

Enjolras nodded. "We're meeting someone, thanks. They should be around here somewhere … " He scanned the room and caught sight of his parents at a table by a window. They were seated next to each other at a table set for three, their backs to Enjolras. "They're just over there," he said, pointing. "But thanks."

"Of course," was the curt reply, accompanied by an equally curt little nod, and then he was whisking off.

Enjolras squared his shoulders and released a little moan of reluctance. "Here we go, I guess," he said, striding across the room with Éponine at his heels. "Warning you now. Despite what I said, this might get ugly."

…

Among Cosette's favourite hangouts in London was the stretch of bookshops along Charing Cross Road. She couldn't walk down the street without stopping in front of the shop windows, and because she spent so much time in the area, she was familiar with all the shops, and had a few particular favourites.

One of these was a small bookshop that specialised in science fiction – they had a broad selection of second-hand sci-fi movies as well. She happened to know a boy who worked there, a kid named Chris who'd taken History at GCSE levels with her. He was all right, Chris. Had brilliant taste in books and movies. Much as she loved Marius, Cosette could never talk to Marius about books; he never disagreed with her about anything thus making such discussions somewhat tiresome.

And of course everyone knew the story of the man who'd opened the shop, a Mr Evans. He was in his sixties now, but he'd come from a rich family with high expectations. He had two doctorates from Cambridge, one in Physics and one in Chemistry. With these degrees he'd gone and opened up a science fiction bookshop in London, much to his family's disappointment, and had been running the business ever since.

Cosette pushed the door open, a bell jangling to announce her arrival. There was a small crowd today; the place had never suffered from lack of business. She saw Chris at the front desk and walked over. "Hey," she said brightly. "Is your boss in?"

"Hi. Er, yeah," said Chris, nodding slowly. "He's in the back, I think. Why?"

"I was sort of hoping to speak to him. About something."

Chris raised an eyebrow. "You want me to get Mr Evans because you want to speak to him about _something_. If you're looking for a recommendation, I thought I was the one you consulted. Listen, I've started this _wicked_ new trilogy – "

"And I'll get around to it," Cosette interrupted. "Please? I mean, if he's busy I could just come back another day, it's important but it's not urgent … "

"Nah, it's okay. He's just watching _Firefly_. Want me to go get him?"

"Please." While Chris disappeared into the back room, Cosette idly examined a few books on a shelf nearby, mentally noting one that sounded appealing. A moment later, Chris reappeared.

"He says you could just go right in the back room, as you're a friend of mine," he said, shrugging. "Whatever _important_ thing you need to speak to my boss about. What's this all about, anyway? Oh, and mind the mess."

Cosette stepped behind the front desk and pushed aside the bead curtain leading to the bookshop's notably cluttered back room. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she said as she passed through the doorway, beads clattering back into place behind her.

In the back room, she found Mr Evans seated in a swivel chair indeed fixed on a small portable television. He groped for the remote and hit the Pause button as she came in. "Hello," he said slowly. "Chris says you're a friend of his and you wanted to speak to me about something _important_?" He gave this last word a sceptical tweak, likely imagining there was nothing a teenage girl could possibly speak to him about that was worth his time. But all the same, he gestured towards a wobbly-looking stool and Cosette sat, smiling politely.

"Hello, sir," she said, reaching out to shake his hand. "Yeah, there was, actually, so I really appreciate your time."

He arched an eyebrow, rotating in the chair so that he was facing her. "So what pressing matter is it you wanted to speak to _me_ about?"

Cosette shifted in her seat; she wasn't quite sure how to put her thoughts to words. She'd chosen to speak to Mr Evans mostly because she hadn't been able to come up with another physics expert who was accessible. She somehow doubted he'd be of any help to her in the mystery they were solving. Certainly she wasn't about to go and explain the entire situation to him. It would sound absurd, he'd accuse her of playing games and wasting his time. Watching _Firefly_ was a noble cause, but Mr Evans had done one significant thing with his degree: he had written a book on theoretical physics, about the nature of time and space, and human perception of such matters. It hadn't sold many copies, and admittedly Cosette had not read his book, but he was the only person she'd been able to come up with, so here she was. She took a deep breath. "Well, I'm a really big fan of science fiction," she began, "and I was sort of hoping to write my own sci-fi novel sometime soon. A time travel story, with lots of complicated plot threads, paradoxes, maybe some alternate realities." She shrugged. "I mean, I'm still working on it, but I wanted to have the science down first. On time travel, and that kind of thing."

"Uh-_huh_." Mr Evans' smile was one of strained patience. "But you do realise that time travel – it's called science _fiction_ for a reason?"

"No, no, of course, Mr Evans," Cosette said hurriedly. "But it's also called _science_ fiction for a reason, am I right? I mean, there's some scientific thought and theory behind it. Fictional science, but it's all bound by some universal rules all the same. At least," she added wryly, "the good stuff is."

Mr Evans cracked a smile at that. "Indeed. Well as it happens, I wrote a book on it, which is why you're approaching _me_, correct?"

"Yes."

"I see." He seemed amused now. "Well, yes, I did try to integrate actual scientific _theory_ behind time-travel speculation in my book. It's all of it light-hearted nonsense, of course, but it serves as a good guide for science fiction writers, if I do say so myself."

Cosette leaned forward eagerly, waiting.

"So was there anything specific you wanted to know for your book? You're a little young to be thinking about writing a great big sci-fi book, aren't you? If you go to school with our Chris, you're not even through secondary yet."

"No, I've still got a year left. I haven't really gotten around to reading your book all the way through yet, sir, I'll admit. But I was hoping you could tell me about your thoughts on the fabric of time, maybe on the _progress_ of time, as well as a thing or two on the theory of temporal fixed points and if they're relevant or not and of human involvement in relation to them," she said in a rush. "All in theory. Of course. Oh, and do you mind if I record this?"

Mr Evans raised an eyebrow again at these extensive requests, but waved for her to go ahead, and Cosette removed her mobile, placing it on top of a cardboard box next to her, and found the audio recording app. "Well, I haven't written about _all_ of that," he began, "but I suppose I have a thing or two to say about it."

Cosette gave another hopeful nod.

"Fixed points in time, you say?" Mr Evans ran a thumb over his chin, pondering the matter. "Well, as I assume you know, in the world of science fiction, a fixed point in time is a moment in time that cannot be changed. However, scientifically speaking, time is believed to always be in flux, you see, and little things are always changing, details being rearranged, all through history, all around the universe. But these details are so tiny we don't notice; no other life forms out there – and there probably are some – notice, because the infinitesimal details are too small to matter. These little moments in time are scarcely microseconds long, and the universe isn't really affected. But fixed points are different.

"A fixed point in time is more, shall we say, bound to the constraints of the fabric. Some writers will tell you to the very fabric of the multiverse, though I've always found that to be a bit of a stretch. Fixed points are big, fixed points are critical to the progression and flow of time. In scientific terms, related quantum units of time are elevated to macroscopic reality. And if something goes wrong, if a fixed point is changed…" He grabbed a stray sheet of paper and crumpled it into a ball, then frowned. "I hope that wasn't too important."

Cosette had watched enough sci-fi to have heard all this before, but she nodded. "So we're talking big historical events?"

"Exactly. I'm sure most wars would count as fixed points, and revolutions. We could count natural disasters as fixed points in time, too – like Pompeii and the San Francisco earthquake in 1906."

_Revolutions_. Cosette's heart picked up its pace. "Thanks so much, Mr Evans. This is really helping, by the way."

He nodded, seemingly rather enjoying himself. "There's a theory I had, this sort of idea, but years after the publication of my book, if you think it might help… so we've got these fixed points in time, and they're bound to the fabric of space as well as time**.** But the time portion, now, only exists within the fourth dimension. That's why it's highly unlikely we in this universe will ever be able to achieve time travel – ours knows only three dimensions, that is all that we can perceive. But of course we science fiction fans tend to overlook that, because of all the brilliant time stories that have been written.

"Anyway, fixed points in time are still bound to the space-time fabric, even though we can't perceive it. But those moments are also very weak. And the fabric is filled with holes, very little ones, which is what I like to think makes time travel possible, at least from a theoretical standpoint. And when you have these fixed points in time, those holes sort of _stretch_, like tugging at a loose thread on a wool sweater. The holes expand. That's what makes them so important – and so vulnerable. And here you have to sort of bend your mind a little, because it's these large holes that can make the fixed points in time, in a sort of loop."

Cosette hesitated, her gaze skirting over to her mobile on the cardboard box. Still recording, luckily. "You know, you keep talking about _big_ historical events, like, I dunno, World War Two, or the French Revolution. But what about smaller ones? The ones that didn't really make it to our history books? Could they be fixed points in time, too, do you think – vulnerable?"

Mr Evans seemed to ponder this. "I don't see why not," he said, "if they held some significance. You know, history is filled with so many extraordinary events that humanity forgot. I'm sure that what they teach in school curriculum and in university doesn't even cover a fraction of them. In a way, they might even be more important. More connected, shall we say, to the fabric. Bigger, more gaping holes. Now there's an interesting thought." He beamed at her. "I don't know what book it is you're planning to write, but it sounds like I'll very much want to read it if you get around to it."

"Oh – thank you," said Cosette, smiling. Had she really been writing a book, she would have been flattered. "Though I'll need a good plot first."

"Yes, plot is rather important, isn't it?" He chuckled. "Now, I'm afraid it'll be my shift in a few minutes, but Chris can manage the front desk for a little bit longer. I'll just shorten his next one. But before I go, you mentioned something about the people associated with the events?"

"Yes, I did. I was just wondering if maybe you, or any other writers, had any theories on people involved in fixed points in time, especially those that've been forgotten. Especially if they died."

He blinked. "That's rather specific. But yes, I imagine that they themselves might be more vulnerable, too, actually. I don't really quite see what dying would have to do with it but – oh, you could certainly use this – people associated with those events might somehow fall _through_ the holes in the fabric."

"To the future?"

"The future from their standpoint, yes, or the past. I don't think it matters beyond setting."

"Just one more thing," Cosette found herself saying. "I know you wrote a lot about time and the fourth dimension. So, if time were the fourth dimension, what about space? I mean, if someone fell through time to the past or future, d'you think it would have to be in the same place? Or would that not matter?"

He stroked a thumb across his chin again. "Hmm. It might matter a little. That is, if we grant that time is the fourth dimension then there is no reason that a displacement in time shouldn't also involve a displacement in space, in the same way that a vertical displacement doesn't rule out a simultaneous horizontal displacement, for example. I don't think our character could fall through a small hole in the time fabric and land on the other side of the universe, but perhaps a displacement of a few seconds might be combined with a displacement of a few millimetres, or a few years in time with a few miles in space."

"Or, say, two centuries combined with a displacement from France to England?"

"If you like." Mr Evans nodded.

Cosette pressed the _End recording_ button on her mobile. "Thanks so much for all your help, sir. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it." She stood up. "I'll let you get back to work now."

"It was a pleasure," he replied, nodding, then shook his head with a chuckle. "But you're taking all this so _seriously_! Don't worry too much about it – have fun with that book of yours! All this was just an old man babbling on about his insignificant ideas."

"Of course, sir. I know. Thanks again," said Cosette. Tucking her mobile into her pocket, she hurried from the shop.

…

Éponine followed Enjolras nervously across the tearoom. He cast her a reassuring smile, but it was clear his efforts were wasted, and now that they were here, he was beginning to think he'd made one great big whopping mistake. It had been selfish of him to invite Éponine along. Yes, he'd asked her to join him because he wanted her to be with him, but he'd done it to spite his parents as well, and the only one who was going to suffer for it was her.

He was about to tell her she didn't _have_ to join him and his parents for tea, that she could explore the shop if she wanted, but at that moment, his mother turned around in her chair and caught sight of him. "Oh, _there_ you are; come over here, now. Do you know how long we've been waiting?"

Enjolras' shoulders sagged and he trekked over to the table, leaving Éponine to follow behind. He leaned over his mother and she stuck out her chin for him to place the obligatory kiss on her cheek, then dropped into a seat across from them with nothing more than a nod from his father. Éponine came over to the table, hovering behind the one unoccupied seat uncertainly.

"Right," said Enjolras, gesturing for her to sit down. "Mum, Dad. This is Éponine. She, ah, she lives with me."

Éponine shot him a warning look, but she put on a tight-lipped smile and bowed her head. "Pleased to make your acquaintances, sir; ma'am," she said, and for the first time Enjolras noted how forced her accent was. Clearly she was straining to maintain for fear of lapsing into her lower-class dialect out of nerves. She seemed surprised when Enjolras' father held out a hand for her to shake. With an uncertain look Enjolras' way, she reached out and took it, shaking gingerly. Handshakes had not been ladylike in 1832, Enjolras presumed.

There followed a long moment of awkward silence. His mother broke it, of course. "Well, we'd better set a fourth place, then," she said in lofty tones. At the same time, one hand raised in the air and she snapped her fingers once, beckoning a server. The next instance, a severe-looking man materialised at her side.

"Yes, ma'am, may I help you?"

"We have an unexpected someone joining us for tea. We'll need a fourth place set, thank you," she said crisply. "And if the tea could arrive in the next few minutes, that would be so lovely."

"Yes, ma'am." The server disappeared as silently as he'd arrived. It struck Enjolras for the first time then. Mum had always been pretentious and well beyond self-centred, expecting the world to respond to her beck and call, but there was something very _Victorian_ in her attitude towards those she saw as her inferiors. Very 19th century. Sort of like his mother might have been as an upper-class woman in 1832.

"And how have you been doing, Enjolras?" his father asked, eyeing him.

"I've been good," he said, nodding slowly. From the corner of his eye, he could sense Éponine looking at him pleadingly, clearly unsure of what to do. Frankly, Enjolras wasn't sure what to do either. He'd expected his parents to begin interrogating Éponine at once, not ignore her. "You know. On summer break, which is always nice. Did well on my exams."

"That's good news," said Mum. "Now," she said, putting a hand to her chest, "you would not believe what the traffic is like. Absolutely horrible. It must have taken us twenty minutes!"

Enjolras frowned. "You _drove_ here? Mum, you live half a kilometre away."

"Oh, we couldn't _walk_; your father broke his toe a fortnight ago, you know." Mum shook her head. "Too far for him. Anyway, you took the Underground, I suppose."

"We walked, actually."

As if he hadn't said anything, Mum turned in her chair again, craning her neck, to see a server coming their way with a tray. "Oh, here comes the tea; good. It's about time, wouldn't you say? The service here isn't what it once was." She shook her head woefully as the server arrived with their tea and cakes, the last of which were presented on a three-layered tray.

There was another silence as the four of them took turns pouring their tea and adding in the desired amounts of milk and sugar. Enjolras saw this as a fine excuse for avoiding eye contact, and stirred his tea until Éponine laid a hand on his and whispered, "You needn't make it so obvious." He flushed momentarily, and looked up to face his parents once more. Mum was examining the selection of cakes, scones, and small triangular-cut sandwiches.

Enjolras slid his gaze back down towards his tea, and Éponine gave him a look that clearly read, "What next?" She had poured herself tea and was peeking at the cakes, but made no move to take one. The two of them sat in that continued silence, waiting for either of his parents to break it, which they would in time.

"So … Éponine," said his mother at long last, buttering a scone. "You _live_ with my son, do you? How long has this been going on? He never mentioned you last time I spoke to him."

"Oh. Well," Éponine said with a quick sidelong glance Enjolras' way. "Not terribly long. Indeed, I only just moved in a few weeks ago; it is all very new. It's a lovely apartment he has. Very nice. Humble yet most attractive." Another quick sidelong glance; then she smiled and went on. "My mother always said that one's residence says a lot about a person. Firstly of their status, of course, but of their nature too. She always told me that a humble residence was the very best kind, especially if the property owner is well-off, for humility gives one such an attractive character. To live an overly privileged life, and make a great show of one's wealth, is most unappealing – small families living in great big homes with grand entrances as though they lived in Versailles itself! Terribly distasteful. Of course, that is not to say a residence should be tasteless. It must be well-decorated, and spacious enough to live comfortably."

Oh, she was quick, this one. Enjolras was relieved she wasn't trying to please his parents; clearly she sensed they were not worth it, which they weren't as far as he was concerned. She was quick and she was clever. Her 19th century manners were being put to good use here; a jibe under the guise of pleasantry.

"Mm-hmm." Mum pretended to look impassive, but Enjolras knew her well enough to notice the tight set her jaw had taken. "Well, it's good to know you're comfortable. But please, I need to know details here!" She gave a light, airy laugh. "My son here never tells me anything. How long have you known each other, then? Long enough to have moved in, I see."

"About a year now," Enjolras jumped in when Éponine looked lost again.

"Now, Enjolras, your mother asked Éponine, not you," Dad cut in. He turned to Éponine, addressing her for the first time. "My wife is right; we need to know details!" A false smile. Éponine looked at him expressionlessly, expectantly.

"You'll have to tell us," said his dad, selecting a sandwich, "where the two of you met. At university? You go to university, I imagine."

Enjolras opened his mouth, but this time Éponine interrupted. "It's quite all right, Enjolras. I can answer just as well as you." She turned back to his father, taking her teacup in hand. "Certainly I am educated. But you are mistaken in your assumptions, sir. We met not at university, but merely on the street. In Russell Square, actually; very close to his flat. I thought I recognised him from somewhere, and there you have it."

"So do you attend UCL? Or do you go somewhere else?" Dad bit into his sandwich now, but his eyes never left her.

"I attend, ah, yes. UCL. Fine institution." Éponine finally leaned forward to study the selection of teacakes, choosing one covered in pink icing. She bit into it delicately. "This is a lovely tearoom, by the way. I must thank you were inviting us. I do not take tea very often."

"Are you from London? I don't mean to sound rude, but you don't sound it. I detect a bit of an – accent, but I can't place it." He pointed at her, his brow furrowed in mock concentration. "Is that a bit of a Manchester accent I hear? I might be wrong, but … "

"No," Éponine said, perhaps a bit too abruptly in Enjolras' opinion – but then, he had no place to judge her. Considering her nerves from before, and considering how quietly intimidating his parents were, she was doing brilliantly. "That is exactly right; I am from Manchester." A quick sidelong glance.

"Manchester," Dad repeated slowly, nodding. "Got to say I've never been up there. What's it like? Nice?"

"It, it is very different from here," Éponine replied. "I do not know how else I could describe my home to you, I'm afraid. Forgive me, but I cannot quite find the correct words. But certainly I would say it is different."

And now Mum joined in the conversation again, apparently recovered from the previous blow. "And do you have a job? Enjolras here doesn't have one, though we're _always_ pressuring him to go asking round at the bank or something like that, just as a start. Mind you, he doesn't _need_ one, either. Not yet, anyway. But I think it's sensible to start off somewhere early on in life, don't you? You strike me as the kind who'd get a job if she needed one." A closed-lip smile.

Éponine returned it. _Oh, _good_ for her._ "Yes, I have a job, actually. I work as a … a … " She trailed off, suddenly uncertain again, and looked to Enjolras for support.

"A waitress," Enjolras said smoothly. "You know, at the Musain? That pub near me that I always go to? Did you ever get around to going, by the way? I recommended it."

"Oh, you know we don't go out to pubs much," his mother clucked, scarcely looking at him. She was much more interested in her interrogation victim, and she addressed her now. "A waitress? So do you do a lot of – "

In that instant, he found he couldn't take it anymore. He really had been wrong in bringing Éponine along with him; a proper selfish twat. While Éponine might have been clever, she was obviously uncomfortable being interrogated. And he couldn't stand watching her squirm another minute. "Mum," Enjolras heard himself interrupting. "I think that's enough."

He hadn't really been worthy of their full attention before, but his interjection was enough to steal it away, at least momentarily. "Enjolras," said his mother, all affronted tones, "really, you don't have to be so rude. I'm just making pleasant conversation with your girlfriend – "

"No, you're not," he said. "And you know it."

"Really, I can't believe your behaviour. You're a man, not a child. We didn't raise you – "

"No," he said, "you didn't."

"Enjolras!"

"You asked me out to tea," he said loudly, clasping his hands together. "Before you even knew Éponine existed, so why don't you and I chat a little? I'm sure Éponine wants a break to eat her food. Tell me, Mum, how've you been?"

"I've been perfectly well, _thank you_," she said acidly. "And I can see you're just as insolent and disrespectful as before. Still hanging around pubs with drunks and the like. Still going to this Musain of yours. No, don't look at me like that; I know perfectly well you and your friends have your little meetings in the back room of the place. I can see your, ahem, _political affiliations_ are still questionable at best."

Enjolras stood up, disturbing his teacup. Some of it sloshed over the brim onto the white tablecloth. "Come on, Éponine. We're leaving."

Éponine looked from Enjolras to his parents to Enjolras again, her mouth half-open, clearly unsure what to make of the spectacle she had just witnessed. Enjolras was breathing hard, his teeth gritted in frustration.

"_Éponine_. Let's _go_."

She stood up at last, with more care than he had done. She continued staring at his parents as if unsure whether she should say some sort of goodbye or not. Enjolras didn't wait a moment longer. Turning on his heel, he proceeded to walk at a rapid pace from the tearoom, and to his relief, Éponine hurried after him.

"Enjolras!" his mother called after him. "Are you going to just _leave_ your father and I with the bill?"

"I'm sure you can afford it," he said without looking over his shoulder.

It wasn't until they were standing outside of Harrods that they finally stopped. In fact, just outside the doors, Enjolras stopped in his tracks, causing Éponine to nearly barrel into him. She took hold of his shirtsleeve and led him closer to the wall so that he wasn't blocking the flow of pedestrian traffic. "That was rude."

He sighed. "I know. But I'm not going to go back in there to apologise, if that's what you're thinking, and you're not going on my behalf either."

"I had no such intention." She looked at him squarely in the eye. "But you need not have intervened for me. I was perfectly aware of what your parents were doing, and I was not suffering. I was managing quite fine on my own, and had you not gone and interrupted, we may have all taken tea together at least pretending to be kind."

He looked at her tiredly, and was relieved when she gave a small smile.

"Mind you, I would have found it difficult to keep my temper under control were I in your place. Begging your pardon, but your parents are _dreadful_; no different than those of their class in my time."

Enjolras found he could remember how to grin back. "You don't need to hold back," he said. "I know what my parents are like."

"Horrible though _my _father may be, at the very least he is honest about it."

Enjolras laughed. "Listen, though, Éponine. It really wasn't nice of me to bring you along. I knew they were going to interrogate you, and they did. I just did it – "

"Because you wanted to anger them," she said patiently. "Yes, I know. And it was selfish of you. But it is all right, because you are forgiven."

He opened his mouth to say something, but it was as if he had forgotten how to string the words together. "I – er – " He paused for a moment. "You hungry?" was all he was able to say.

"Oh, terribly so," she said emphatically. "Shall we return to your apartment?"

They began to walk down the street together directionlessly, with Éponine looking in the shop windows and admiring the displays. "I truly should like to stay here," she said abruptly. "I am beginning to grow used to some of the strange ways of this world. And I like it here."

"You know," Enjolras said slowly, "seeing as you're staying, seeing as there's no foreseeable way back for you … "

"Yes?"

"You'd better get used to the culture. It's summertime. It's tourist season. I haven't got exams to revise for. And you need to get used to 21st century London. The least I can do is start showing you around the city."

She'd stopped to glance in the front window of a jewellery shop, but she turned to face him now, beaming. "Truly? Oh, but I _should_ like that! I should like that very much."

He grinned. "Brill. We'll start first thing tomorrow; maybe Big Ben or the London Eye if you're up for it. And you're hungry, yeah?"

Éponine nodded.

"Then never mind tomorrow; let's start now. Come on. I'm taking you to a nice, proper chippie."


	16. Chapter 16

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

…

They went to the chippie nearest Enjolras' flat, a charming restaurant called North Sea Fish, and sat down in the dining area. It wasn't very crowded at this hour, and Enjolras was grateful for that. Éponine's wonderment and unfamiliarity at fish and chips, a staple of the Londoner's diet, would have attracted attention from the other patrons. Only their waitress would be puzzled.

"Do you wish to have tea here, then?" asked Éponine, looking around at the chippie's pub-style dining area.

"Oh, no," said Enjolras. "We're having chips. It's something a wee bit different."

When their waitress arrived, he ordered a fried halibut for each of them, which came with chips, along with a side of buttered peas and two Cokes. Their sodas arrived soon afterwards, and Éponine looked at the glass suspiciously. "Is it spirits?" she asked. "Papa sometimes had sparkling wine, and it looks rather like that but for the colour."

"It's soda," Enjolras explained uncertainly. "No alcohol. It's good; you'll like it. It's sweet."

Éponine crouched low in her chair so that she was at eye level with the rim of her glass. "Why is it such a dark brown colour?"

"Er, I don't know. I think it's because they put colouring in it. Anyway, it's not natural."

"Why would you want to drink something unnatural?"

"Oh, almost everything's unnatural these days. You don't have to have it. We can order you something else if you like. Tea, iced tea, juice… "

"No, no. I'll try it." Éponine raised the glass to her lips, sipped, and made a face. She placed the glass down on the table. "I think it shall take some getting used to." She looked around again. "It's very nice here. Nothing like the tearoom in that shop, but all the same. This must be a place for the rich."

Enjolras looked around. "Not really. It's just a chippie." He neglected to mention the fact that North Sea was rather high-end, at least as far as chippies went. He'd wanted to take Éponine out somewhere that was casual, but sort of luxurious too. Somewhere nice.

"So you say that these 'chips' are simply fried potatoes? With fish and peas?"

"That's it exactly. They're really good; you'll like them."

Éponine smiled. "I'm sure that I will. I have not had fish very many times. Most of the meat we ate came from the butcher's." She tried for a sip of Coke and again pulled a face, but this time she gulped down a bit more of it. Her face took on a distant look, but when Enjolras asked her what was wrong, she vaguely replied that she was "just thinking." She said nothing until their food arrived.

She looked doubtfully down at her food, her gaze finally sliding up to Enjolras. At last she reached for her fork and moved to stab one of her chips with it, but Enjolras stayed her hand. "No, no," he said. "You can use that for your fish, and your peas, but not for the chips. You eat those with your fingers. Here, like this." He picked up a chip from her plate and took a large bite.

Éponine gave a little laugh. "Those are mine!" She reached over, took a chip from his plate, and popped it shamelessly into her mouth. Her eyes closed with pleasure. "These are delicious," she said after a moment. "Truly."

He grinned. "Better than tea and cakes at Harrods?"

"Oh, they _must_ be." She gave him a broad smile of her own and popped another couple of chips into her mouth, this time from her own plate.

The two of them shared a laugh, then Éponine went quiet again and took to picking at her chips. At long last, she said, "When we were at Harrods, your mother, she called me your girlfriend. Whatever did she mean by it? Surely she couldn't have meant… ?"

Enjolras stopped halfway through a swig of Coke. "Er," he said, swallowing. "Well. I guess she figured we were, you know, ah, how would you call it, lovers."

She froze. "Lovers?"

"Yeah, I guess she assumed – "

"But," Éponine's voice took on a panicked edge. "But we are not! That is not the situation between us! Oh, oh, but this is dreadful! We cannot have your mother going about thinking that you and I… that we… I cannot even say it. She must be beyond shocked. Scandalised! I know you do not care of what your mother thinks of you, but to have her assuming _that_! We cannot let her go on thinking such a thing! We must go back and explain that she is mistaken, we must remedy this… " She made to stand up.

"Éponine," Enjolras pleaded. "Please, calm down. It's okay. Seriously. She can think that if she wants to. Seriously, it's fine."

She settled, but the look of desperation on her face did not ease. "We have never… we are not _lovers_!"

"I know." Enjolras fiddled with the collar of his shirt, suddenly finding it much too restricting. "But I mean, if we were, would that be such a bad thing?"

"No. No, I suppose not. I mean to say, I, I should not mind. Certainly not." A quick, nervous smile flicked across her face and she took a sip of Coke.

"Right, yeah." Enjolras scratched the back of his head. "Have you tried the halibut yet?"

"Pardon?" she frowned.

"The halibut. It's good; try it."

"Very well."

They both looked back down at their food, and Éponine finally reached for her cutlery, taking a small bite of halibut. She mumbled something about it being delicious, but Enjolras didn't catch it completely, nor did he ask her to repeat what she'd said. Frankly he was beginning to wish he could take it all back, namely the last sixty seconds.

What the hell had he been _thinking_? _Would that be such a bad thing?_ She may have had street smarts and wit, but she was also a girl from the 19th century, and he knew the moment the words left his mouth he was going to offend her further. Except he hadn't offended her, and that was both terrifying and reassuring. The reassuring aspect made it all the more terrifying.

He wished he could flee just about now. _Human interaction's not your strong suit, Enjolras_, he chided himself, _so stay away from it_.

Except he didn't want to stay away from it. At least not when it came to her.

He had begun to considering excusing himself to the lav and hiding there until he had sorted out his emotions when he caught a thin, olive-skinned hand reaching surreptitiously across the table towards his chips. Faster than he could blink, the hand snatched up three of the largest chips and then she laughed as he came fully back to reality.

"There we are, then, I was wondering if that might catch your attention!" Éponine grinned at him teasingly. "It would seem I am correct." It was as if he had said nothing at all. That bright grin not fading for a second, she waved the chips tauntingly in the air for one more moment before popping all three of them into her mouth at once.

...

On her way home, Cosette stopped at the library nearest her flat complex. She hoped the Cambridge boy would not be working the circulation desk today; she really didn't have the patience for him. As she entered the building, taking a moment to breathe in the comforting smell of books that hung in the air, she spied him working in the Children's section shelving books. She hurried to the front desk, where a middle-aged woman was working, before he could turn around and see her.

As Cosette approached the desk, the woman looked up from typing into the library's ancient computer, boredom evident in her expression. She looked at Cosette blankly for a moment, then pasted on a bright, cheerful smile. "Can I help you?"

"Hi," said Cosette, smiling herself. "I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of a book on a certain topic. In the Sciences section."

"Mm-_hmm_." The woman slid her gaze back over to the computer screen. "What's the book?"

"Well, that's it, you see, I don't know. I've only got a loose topic." She waited for the librarian to say something, but when she continued to stare, Cosette went on. "I was looking for a quantum physics book that deals with theories of space-time and the constituents of the universe, but something the general public could understand."

The librarian typed some commands into the computer. "Let's see, now… not a regular Sciences reader, are you? This for a summer project?"

Cosette smiled politely. "No to both questions. Just reading out of general interest."

"Uh-huh. Well, let's see… here we are. I think we've got a few books on what you're looking for. Why don't you come with me and I'll show them to you?"

…

The following morning, Éponine lingered in her bed, burrowing deeper into the comfort the soft bedclothes provided. She released a little sigh of contentment. Had she not had something to look forward to today, she thought to herself, she would simply spend the entirety of the morning just lingering here in the comforts of this bed, in this room.

It was to her a novelty to have a room to herself. As a child in Montfermeil, she and Azelma had shared a bedroom as far back as she could remember (for she'd been but thirteen months old when her sister was born). In Paris, in the Gorbeau tenement, she and Azelma had cramped themselves into a spare room that was little more than a linens closet. They'd shared a bed that had scarcely been able to fit into the tiny space, on a canvas mattress that had not been washed in years and always smelled faintly of urine and Papa's pipe-weed. So many years had been spent in Paris, on that bed, and she'd grown accustomed to having the warmth of a body next to her during the night, of listening to her sister's even breaths as she tried to fall asleep herself. Suddenly Éponine found herself yearning for that – not to share a cramped, dirty mattress with her sister of course, but simply to have _someone_ to lie down next to and bid goodnight to, then turning out the oil-lamps. (Or, she supposed, in this world, putting out the _electric_ lights with the mere flip of a switch).

Éponine rolled over in bed so that she was facing the window. It was a clear day, and the sun streamed in through her drawn curtains. She watched the dust motes dancing in the beams of sunlight for a spell, then kicked off the blankets and rolled out of bed, stretching her arms as she rose.

She opened the door quietly in case Enjolras was still asleep, poking her head out into the corridor. The flat was completely still. Then, suddenly, she heard the sound of water coming out of the shower. It struck her then just how familiar she was becoming with the 21st century, and she could not help but feel a little proud of herself. This new world, this terrifying, bizarre new world, was slowly becoming hers for the making.

Éponine wandered into the kitchen and, finding a small latch, hesitantly opened the compartment that washed dishes, intending to dry them and put them back in the cupboards. It made a strange noise as she did so, and instantly she let go of the handle, certain she had done something wrong. To her horror, the cupboard's door dropped open. Éponine leaned closer; had she broken it? Carefully she tried to shut the door again. She pushed hard, and with a click, she found that it shut easily. Curious, she thought. Although it appeared no damage had been done, she backed out of the kitchen, not wanting to fiddle with anything else.

As she had nothing else to do until Enjolras finished washing himself, she sat on the sofa and read from _Jane Eyre_. She was now on the fifth chapter and enjoying it greatly. It took but a few moments before she lost herself to the story. She was becoming a better reader through practise, and vaguely she wondered what she might have done had she had anything to read in Paris. Perhaps she would not have been quite so unhappy; she could have done with an escape.

She became so engrossed in the book that she did not notice when the door to the lavatory opened and Enjolras stepped out, not until she heard his footsteps passing by her. She looked up with a broad smile – then quickly looked away.

"Heavens! You're… _indecent_!"

Enjolras, as it happened, was shirtless, having forgotten to grab a T-shirt on his way into the shower. He sort of had a towel pressed up against his torso, but it would not cover everything. He froze on the spot and felt himself blushing. "Yeah," he heard himself saying. "Sorry. I, er, forgot my shirt."

Éponine continued to turn her head pointedly away. "You need not apologise. You simply startled me."

"Sorry," he said again. "I just wasn't thinking. I'll go to my room now, grab a shirt. You can wash up yourself, then we'll have some breakfast and get started, yeah?"

"Very well." She kept her face turned away until she heard his footsteps continuing on their way to his chambers again. Then, impulsively, without thinking, she looked over at him. She saw him for only a second before he closed his bedroom door, her eyes curiously taking in the sight of him half-clothed. She saw bare, pale skin, and muscle; more muscle than you'd think from seeing him fully clothed. Then the door was shut and the moment had passed; Éponine shook her head. Whatever was the matter with her?

…

"I believe you have yet to tell me where we are going," Éponine griped as they boarded the bus. Enjolras said their destination was too far away to reach by foot, and that regrettably, a bus ride would prove necessary. She was feeling altogether quite sullen about it, for she loathed the bus and would have much preferred an hours-long walk.

"It's a surprise," was the good-natured reply.

"Then it had better be worth it," she muttered.

"It will be. Come on up top, you'll feel better."

The bus ride was far too long for Éponine's taste, but sitting by the window near the front helped to ease her queasiness. She rested her forehead against the glass and watched the world pass by below her. The bus took a route different to the last one, and they passed through streets more crowded than any Éponine had seen. So many people! And so many of the cars! Rushing, all of them rushing. It was terrifying and strange and so many other things all at once. Even so, she found herself captivated by it all, drawn to it like a child to the window of a sweet shop. She amused herself by watching it all go by, but she was relieved when the bus came to a stop and Enjolras tapped her on the shoulder.

"This is us, come on."

They dismounted at a corner more crowded than any Éponine had ever seen. Hoards of people walked by shoulder-to-shoulder and she heard them speaking in a variety of tongues she did not understand. She thought she heard, for a moment, French among the myriad of languages, but she did not understand what was being said. Turning around and quickly sidestepping the most concentrated of the pedestrian traffic, Éponine found herself facing an impressive sight: they were at a river bank, and she could see that it was lined in many beautiful buildings from her time and older. Had it not been for the overwhelming crowds and the noise, she would have felt right at home. This was London's very own Seine.

"Oh, but this is the Thames!" she exclaimed in delight. "I've seen illustrations of it before! How delightful! " She turned on Enjolras, grinning broadly. "This should be marvellous, I am certain of it. How many people there are! Have they all come to stroll along the river bank, then? Are we to do the same thing? I'm sure I should like to."

Enjolras grinned. They'd taken the bus several stations away from Westminster; far enough away that you could see the London Eye, but only if you were looking for it. He did not want to overwhelm Éponine completely. It was best, he figured, to introduce her to the heart of London's tourist world little by little. Besides, she'd want to walk off the bus ride, clear her head. "Yeah, I guess you could say we're all here for a walk. Other things, too." He offered her his arm in the style of a Victorian gentleman, only half-teasing. Beaming, she took it.

"It is so very different from the Seine," she murmured. "Has it always been this crowded along here?"

"I doubt it. I get the feeling it's changed a fair bit since 1832, though."

"The fact that everything is different is no longer new to me."

They walked along in silence for a while, Éponine contentedly looked out onto the Thames. He was surprised when she refrained from exclaiming at every second thing; perhaps she had decided to begin digesting in solitude, what were, to her, wonders of a new world. Her silence lasted until they were in reasonably close proximity to the London Eye. Éponine froze and pointed, dropping his arm. "Good heavens! Whatever is that? It is unlike anything I have yet seen, and you must realise by now that that is saying something."

"That," said Enjolras with dramatic flair and unable to keep a grin from his face, "is the London Eye."

She looked from the great Ferris wheel to him and back again, her eyes wide. Enjolras elaborated.

"It's called a Ferris wheel. People queue up to ride in it. See those pods? You can't see them from here, but there are people inside of them. The wheel goes round and round, and 'cause they're attached, so do the pods. Afraid I couldn't tell you the mechanics behind it, but it works through electricity. Anyway, you go in one of the pods at the bottom, and then the wheel goes around, little by little. From up top you can see all of London. And when you've gone all the way around, you get off."

Éponine was staring at the London Eye with a furrowed brow. "Whatever for?"

"How d'you mean, what for? Why do people ride in it?"

She nodded.

"For the view. I was thinking we could go, but only if you want to. I'll warn you the pods aren't that big, and because it's such an attraction they have to cram lots of people into them. It'll be claustrophobic, but once you get in you can't change your mind."

Éponine considered this great bizarre wheel for a long time. The idea of seeing London from up top was exciting, and she liked the idea of riding a wheel. It was like something out of a fairy tale, too fantastic to be real. But the "pods," as Enjolras called them, looked so very small, and she did not like small spaces. And yet…

"I should love to," she said earnestly. "If we might."

He grinned. "Deal, then. Though we'll have to queue up for a while."

"Oh, I don't mind."

He jerked his head towards the great wheel. "Shall we?"

"In a moment. I should like a closer look at the river."

They found a small stairway leading down to a lower level of sidewalk from which there was a clear view of the Thames. Unable to contain her curiosity a moment longer, Éponine ran a short ways ahead.

She leaned against the parapet, contentedly taking in the sight of the river Thames. The water was dirtier than she had expected it to be, like the Seine. A large, crowded boat drifted by below. "A tourist boat," said Enjolras, coming to join her.

She looked over at him and opened her mouth, intending to ask him a question, but something just behind him, just over his shoulder, caught her attention. She stopped and stared.

Two young men, perhaps aged twenty-five. One was leaning back against the parapet; the other leaned into him. And they were _kissing_, passionately and without restraint or fear of judgement. Two men, kissing like husband and wife.

"What are you looking at?" Enjolras questioned, turning. "_Oh_. Éponine – " She went on staring.

The men pulled away from each other. The one leaning against the parapet lifted a hand to stroke his lover's cheek, then they came together again in another deep kiss.

Éponine had heard of such men. In low tones at the inn in Montfermeil, the patrons used to speak of men who favoured men. Sometimes they would gossip about Mr Denoir who ran the apothecary, and he was rumoured to be one of them. She had heard that there were places in Paris where such men lingered to seek each other's company and love, but she knew not where they were; the places were secret for fear of being arrested. But with the possible exception of Mr Denoir, Éponine had never known any of them.

When people spoke of those men, they always seemed disgusted, saying that they were abominations, unnatural. Overhearing these conversations, Éponine had never felt repulsed, exactly, just confused and embarrassed.

Watching them now, Éponine thought she might finally begin to experience some of that repulsion she'd never quite been able to feel. Instead she felt… nothing. It was as if everything she had ever heard and felt melted away.

She did not see an abomination unfolding before her eyes. She did not even see two men kissing. What she saw was simply a kiss. It was passionate and fierce, a firm declaration of love uttered with the meeting of two pairs of lips. An act of love.

"Éponine," she heard Enjolras saying, "listen to me. I know that people were prejudiced about, er, lovers of the same sex being – together, back in your time. I reckon they were revolted. But times have changed. In 2015, we don't have that prejudice and revulsion anymore, okay?" When she turned to look at him, he had a grave expression on his face that she had never seen before.

She gave him an amused little smile. "What's this, then? Did you think that I was disgusted? On the contrary, Enjolras." With a sudden surge of boldness, she offered him her arm like a man. "You said we were to ride that great eye-wheel. Shall we?"

…

They had to queue up for a long time, nearly two hours. Towards the end of the wait, even Éponine was beginning to feel her anticipation give way to impatience. It was a relief when at last they came to the barrier, where a burly man stubbed the tickets they'd spent queuing up for in the line before this one. "Just wait 'til the next pod clears up," said the man good-naturedly, leading them just aside, and Enjolras nodded.

"Are you ready?" he asked Éponine, and she nodded, neck craned upwards to take in the great wheel. It looked even more curious from close-up.

"It is a marvel," she whispered. "Truly."

She watched as the great wheel rotated, as she had seen it do before. One of the pods came to be at level with a low metal platform. To her wonder, it opened, and a crowd of a dozen or so people poured out, chattering happily. Éponine was unaccustomed to seeing such happiness expressed in such great numbers, even if it was only on the surface.

Enjolras, tapping her shoulder, woke her from her reverie. "Oh. Are we boarding?"

"Yep."

She smiled brightly. "Then let's."

With a small handful of other people, Enjolras said they were probably tourists, they were led into the pod by the burly man. Éponine mounted the steps up to the platform slowly, her hand gripping the banister. Her eyes were fixed on the entrance to the pod, feeling it was about to transport her to another world.

"Mind your step, love," she heard the burly man say, and she jumped, realising just in time her foot had been about to catch on the uppermost step.

"Thank you," she said, and with Enjolras just behind her, she entered the pod.

It was very strange inside. With the glass walls of the soon-to-be-sealed compartment, it was just like being inside a room. A metal railing went all around the inside of the egg-shaped pod, and in the centre of the floor was an ovular bench. Hesitantly, Éponine sat on the edge of the bench, leaning forwards slightly. Enjolras dropped down next to her. "If you change your mind," he said in a low, gentle tone, "'fraid this is your last chance."

She turned on him and stared at him. "I am not afraid, and I have no intention of changing my mind!" Her voice dropped, low but forceful. "I thank you for purchasing this ticket for me, with everything in me, but you have gotten my hopes up. I am excited, and I am not afraid. I was raised by criminal innkeepers, and I spent my adolescence on the streets, helping my father run his gang. I have faced policemen and homelessness and starvation. I have faced a father who is much too attached to his drink at his very worst moments. I have faced men who seek me out whether I want them or not, and I have fought in a great battle for those I love. I have fallen through time and awoken in a strange world I have yet to understand. I have faced the truth that everyone I ever loved and knew is gone, for they no longer know who I am. There is so little left for me to be afraid of. If you think I am going to be upset about being in a small space for a half hour, you understand very little."

And while Enjolras sat there digesting these words, the doors to the pod slid shut. A beat, and then slowly, the wheel began to turn.

"Oh!" Éponine could not help but exclaim, and found herself gravitating towards the glass walls for a better view. She gripped the railing and looked out at the river, watched as she rose up and above this strange world, step by step. All of a sudden, it seemed so much more beautiful. But then, so does everything, from a distance.

She could see the river, and the great clock tower. She could see the cars and the people and the buildings, those great structures of glass and metal twisting into the sky, like they were reaching for some dream they could never quite grasp hold of. She could see all of it, all of these components of this great new world, coming together to form one epic tapestry of life.

Enjolras joined her. "What do you think of it?" he asked softly.

Éponine flicked her gaze over to meet his. "So very much," she said. "Too much to say."

…

When the ride was over, the people poured out. Enjolras and Éponine held hands as they walked towards the bus station, their arms swinging. They got on the bus and took seats at the top, to Éponine's gratitude. When they reached their stop they dismounted and Enjolras bought them iced teas at Pret a Manger, and they sipped them on the route back home.

…

In Russell Square, they'd turned the fountain into a wading pool, attracting a flock of children. Parents, siblings, and nannies sat on benches or on the grass, ever watchful.

Éponine and Enjolras took seats on one of the free benches to watch them, both reminded of simpler times when the world was made specially for them. Éponine was drawn in particular to a group of three little girls who ran about in the shin-deep water kicking up puddles while holding hands. The tallest of these, a chubby-cheeked blonde no older than six, broke free of the chain and splashed her friends, who shrieked in delight.

Impulsively, Éponine rested her head against Enjolras' shoulder and sighed.

"Their lives are so temporary," she whispered, and Enjolras looked over at her.

"Blimey," he said, "I hope you're this much fun at parties."

"No, truly," she insisted, straightening. "I think that finding myself in this world has helped me understand that. How quickly time passes, and how it means nothing. Measuring hours, days, minutes, centuries; time is just another invention of man's. And it shall outlive us, this world, this… entire universe. We must mean nothing to it. We don't _like_ to think about it – and you know it's true – but there it is. Our lives are so fleeting, and so are theirs. They've yet to know or understand that, but they shall, in time."

Enjolras looked out at the laughing children, and then over at Éponine, staring hard with her lips pressed together, locks of dark hair in her face. Then, gently, he drew her back against him and she gave a little sigh.

"Let's go," said Enjolras in a hushed voice, and she nodded, rising. They walked down the path, cradling their drinks and their thoughts.

Back at the wading pool, the three little girls ran to the grass to ask their parents if they could have ice creams, hands still clutching each other's. Their bare feet left wet prints on the hot pavement that evaporated under the sun.


	17. Chapter 17

.

**New World for the Winning**

Author's Note: Short but sweet.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

…

Azelma had been nervous upon returning home yesterday. The closer the Underground train got to Whitechapel, the more she'd realised the risks she'd taken with her small act of rebellion. While the odds of Dad being in were low, chances were that Mum would be home. Or one of the gang members, who had a habit of lurking about like a bad smell. Azelma hated the lot of them, Montparnasse especially.

But there hadn't been anyone there when she got home, nor had anyone walked in the rest of the day. Mum must have been in briefly when she was asleep, because when she woke up, Azelma found a twenty-pound note and a short message scrawled on a bit of paper on the counter: _Azelma – for food_.

Now it was late in the afternoon, and no-one had come in. It was nice to have been able to avoid any familial interaction for over twenty-four hours, but even so, Azelma's heart was in her throat, thrumming with the nervousness that always lurked just under the surface.

She'd gone out earlier, gotten herself a sandwich and some Walker's crisps at the shop on the corner, along with some sliced ham and a couple of little yoghurt containers. She chewed on the sandwich – egg salad – while sprawled on the sofa watching _Downton Abbey_. It was nice, this being able to just sit and watch telly. She cherished the time she had alone, and hoped the afternoon would never end.

An episode of _Downton Abbey_ ended and another began. Azelma was about halfway through the episode when she heard the sound of someone furiously kicking the door to get it to open. "Shite," she whispered to herself, stuffed the plastic wrapping from her sandwich between the sofa cushions among the cigarette butts, and turned up the volume on the television.

A moment later, the door finally opened. Dad came in, weighed down by a large cardboard box filled with a fresh stock of his products and a six-pack of beer. He kicked the door shut and called into the sofa, "Well, are you gonna help me with this shite or ain't you?"

Azelma pushed herself into a sitting position, got to her feet, and shuffled into the corridor, where she took the beer cans from her father. "Hi," she mumbled. "Fridge?"

"Where the hell else do cans o' beer go?" he scoffed in reply. "Why didn't ya open the door when ya heard me wrestlin' with the bloody thing?"

"I didn't," she lied as she made her way into the kitchen. "I was watching telly."

Dad poked his head into the living room to see what it was she had been watching. He snorted. "You wanna watch some shite about a load o' rich people from the eighteen-fucking-hundreds?"

"It was on," she said defensively. "And anyway, _Downton Abbey_'s not set in the eighteen hundreds. It's set in, like, World War One."

"Are you being smart with me, young lady?" Before she knew it, he was standing in front of her, finger in her face. Azelma blinked and pulled back, quickly averting her gaze. Her fingers found the collar of her T-shirt.

"No."

"_No_? What the hell's that supposed to mean, _no_? You ain't been yourself these days." Finally Dad dropped his hand, but he continued to stand too close in front of her for comfort. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into you." A pause. "Well, then? What _has_ gotten into ya?"

Azelma shrugged. "Nothing. I don't know."

"What do ya mean, ya don't know?"

"I dunno."

He rolled his eyes and made for his room, shouldering her out of the way, "Bloody useless, you are."

Azelma waited until Dad had shut the door, then she returned to her episode of _Downton Abbey_. She could no longer fully follow what was going on, having missed a good chunk of her episode, but she watched anyway, hooked on the distraction it provided. She crossed her fingers, praying he would stay there the rest of the day.

That lasted approximately twelve minutes.

Dad burst out of his room again and dropped heavily into the sofa next to Azelma's, purposefully angling his body so as to block the screen. Azelma sighed inwardly and reached for the remote, fumbled for the Power button.

"Where the hell were you yesterday?" he demanded the moment the television was switched off.

Azelma tensed, her heart rose to her throat. "Out. Getting food."

"Oh, yeah? What'd you get?"

"Er, some yoghurt. Walker's. Some ham; it's in the fridge. And a sandwich, but I ate it."

"Someone came by 'ere yesterday," he said suddenly. "Knocked on the door."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He leaned forward, and Azelma held her breath a moment. "A couple o' kids, not much older'n you. They were askin' after ya."

Azelma said nothing.

"Now, I thought to myself, 'ain't that funny.' Cos far as I know, you don't associate yourself with anyone outside of us, do ya? 'Cept for that kid brother o' yours. Couple o' posh brats, called James and Lily. They said they were old _school_ friends o' yours. What do you have to say to that, eh?"

_Lily and James. Old school friends._ Azelma had never had any friends. Could they be friends of Enjolras'? How many of his mates had he introduced to the Éponine situation? Must be, she decided. Back at school, she was sure hardly anyone knew she existed. They sure as hell wouldn't have noticed when she left.

She swallowed hard, and thought, for a moment, of the elder sister she'd idolised as a child, back in Weymouth. Éponine had been tough, independent, bold. When Éponine died, Azelma had fallen into some kind of shadow realm, barely able to comprehend what had happened, barely able to absorb her surroundings. Éponine had been her world. When they'd come to London, she'd tried very hard not to think about her sister. Not to forget her, but to keep her out of mind, as a survival mechanism.

She'd been forced to think a lot about her sister lately. Now Azelma remembered her sister's boldness and summed up all the courage she had. Drawing in a deep breath, she said, "I dunno. I had some people I hung out with back at school. Mates, you know. What of it?"

"You never told me about them." He said this emphatically, holding her gaze without even blinking.

"Did you want me to?" she heard herself saying. "We just ate lunch together, mucked about in class a bit, that's all. I didn't think they'd ever get in touch with me outside o' class."

Dad surged to his feet. "You gave them our _bloody_ address? What the hell's the matter with you, eh? Fucking shite, you're an idiot. Now, your sister, she wasn't bright, but you're a different story altogether. Jesus bloody Christ… " He raked a hand through his hair and turned away from her.

"What did they say?" Azelma asked without thinking.

"'_What did they say?_'" Her father spun on her so quickly Azelma gasped and recoiled. "The hell do you care what they said? They ain't comin' back here, I'll see to it myself. I just don't believe you." He pointed an accusing finger at her. "You know what? I've had enough of you. I'm going out." Turning on his heel, he stormed from the apartment without stopping for his keys and slammed the door shut.

Azelma stared at the door to the flat. She was certain he'd come sometime around 2am, hammering on the door and demanding to be let in. If Mum or one of Dad's cronies was home, they'd answer it, but the ruckus would no doubt wake her. Brilliant.

She got up off the sofa, very slowly, afraid of making too much noise despite the fact that she was alone in the flat, and slipped into the confines of her tiny bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped together and cleared her mind. Fixing her gaze on the doorknob, she blocked out all thoughts and simply drifted in a pleasant world of her own creation in which there was nothing. When at last she emerged, she did not know how much time had gone by, nor did she care.

For while she'd been off in her blank world, a thought had formed at the back of her mind. Now it entered her immediate consciousness. _I've got to get back in touch with Enjolras. I want to go to Weymouth_.

…

Evening came upon London, a pleasant summer evening with a light breeze and a watercolour sunset. Éponine was out on the balcony reading _Jane Eyre_ and eating from a bowl of raspberries, enjoying the feeling of the day's last few rays of sunlight on her face.

Enjolras was in his chambers, speaking to Jehan on his telephone. Upon returning home, they'd drifted off to tend to their own affairs, as though Éponine had been living here with him for many months, and the fact that she was now a part of his life had faded to normalcy. She supposed she liked that, and looked up from her book now to wonder if things would continue on this way between them, assuming she continued residing with him.

She had no desire to force herself upon him, nor to burden him. But she was stuck in this world, here to stay. She grew more and more used to it with each passing day, and she knew that she could not go on depending on Enjolras forever. If she was to survive, she would either have to find a way to live on the streets or find herself some form of work. She wondered what she could do. Perhaps she could find employment in cleaning services; didn't people need cleaning services in this world? Or did their machines do everything for them, like the cupboard that washed dishes?

Éponine then wondered what she might do for papers. She hadn't any; in this world she was no-one.

And but for Enjolras, she was entirely alone.

It was in this moment that she felt, like a punch, the crippling loneliness she'd experienced earlier that day, in Russell Square. Oh, but how dependent she was on Enjolras, truly. Éponine hated dependence. To rely on others went against her nature in every way. And she did not think she could bear it another minute.

Abandoning her book, she headed directly to his chambers, pressing her ear against the door. She could not hear him speaking, so, raising a fist, she knocked on the door. "Hey. C'mon in," she heard Enjolras say, and slowly she pushed the door open and poked her head into the room.

"You aren't still speaking to Jehan, are you? I hope I am not interrupting you."

"No, no, I'm done. Here, sit down." Enjolras cracked a smile. "Did Jean Prouvaire go by Jehan in 1832, too, then?" Then he noticed her expression, her lips pressed together to hold distressed tears at bay. "Hey. Éponine. What's wrong, love?"

She dropped onto his desk chair and crossed her legs. "You have housed me," she began uncertainly. "You have fed me, helped me understand this world, and shown me the utmost kindness, even when you thought me mad. And for that I am grateful."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Oh-kay. Where is this going?"

"But I am so dependent on you, and I cannot bear to allow that to go on. I am stuck in this world, and I cannot spend the rest of my life in your spare room eating the food you buy me and doing little else. I must find a way to make a life of my own here." She chewed at her lip. "Enjolras, I have no identity here."

He got to his feet and took her hands in his. "All right," he said, "this calls for a cuppa. Come on."

She followed him into the kitchen, watching silently as he put the kettle on and got two mugs ready. Then he turned to face her, leaning against the counter. "So… what're you saying? You want to find a job or something?"

Éponine nodded. "But I shall need papers, and I haven't any."

"We can find a way for you to get some here. If you don't mind playing with the law."

"I'm sure I don't – but you are studying to be a lawyer, are you not? I would imagine _you'd_ care."

He shrugged, spreading his hands, and she grinned. "No, but seriously, you're right. You need an identity. We'll work it out. But, er… " Enjolras ran a hand through his curls, looking down. "…are you saying you don't want to live here anymore?" Without waiting for an answer, he blundered on. "Because, honestly, I don't mind. I mean… I like it. It's great having you here. Brilliant, in fact. I'd miss you if you left. I just sort of figured… I mean, it's up to you."

The kettle began to whistle, and he turned, removing it from the stove and pouring the hot water into the mugs. One he passed over to her, gesturing towards the sugar bowl.

Enjolras turned to her again. He left his steaming mug on the counter. "I just want you to know you're more than welcome here."

She cupped the mug between her hands, allowing the warmth of the tea to seep into her palms, and smiled. "I did not mean _that_, you ninny. I should like to stay here as long as I might. I simply meant… "

"Right. Gotcha." He smiled back. "Good. I'm glad."

"And I want… " She set her mug down and found herself slowly approaching him. She did not know how she intended to end that sentence until she was doing it. Standing on tiptoe to match his height, she took hold of his cheeks and kissed him.

It was unlike anything Éponine had ever experienced. It was warm; it was sweet; it was honest – suddenly she realised what she was doing, pulled away in alarm, and then it was over.

He stared at her, mouth half-open.

"Forgive me," she stammered. "I-I don't know what got into me – "

He said nothing in reply, just took hold of the sides of her face, and angled his head to kiss her back.

For a fraction of a second, she left her mouth open, gasping, drawing in his air. Then she sealed her lips against his, and it was like sealing a promise between them. As her lips explored his, she imagined a future for herself that involved him, here and now, no longer afraid of this new world but hungry for it. They would spend their lives together, she thought as one of his hands found the small of her back. The dream was like a drug. She felt freer, lighter, no longer bound by rules. There was only desire, and desire played by no-one's rules.

In his lips she could taste his desire, too, some wonderful and exotic passion they shared. His desire completed her, filled the parts of her that had been empty so long, brought to light other parts of her she hadn't known existed.

It was an unwelcome surprise when the kiss ended. She feared he would break away and apologise as she had done, but he did not. Holding her by the shoulders, he looked into her eyes, and she into his. Éponine drew herself closer to him, rested her head against his chest. "Yes," she breathed.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes," she whispered, "I shall stay."

He smiled lightly. "You already said that."

"I know. But I want to say it again."

He ran his hands through her dark hair, and she looked up at him. "Tea's getting cold," he finally said. It was a whisper, and she nodded, reluctantly pulling away. Each of them took their mugs and sipped. The tea was still hot, barely having had time to cool. She supposed the kiss must have lasted but a few moments after all; a minute at the most. How strange. It felt like it had gone on for so long.

"You okay then, my love ?" he asked, gently.

"Yes. I'm sure that I am now."

…

That evening, back in her room, Cosette rang Marius and asked him to come over. "This is important," she said into the phone. "Big. Marius, I think I've got something. Just so long as you're not with one of the boys."

She could tell from the background noise that he wasn't in his flat, probably he was in town for a pint. "No, no, I'm alone. On my way."

Cosette dropped onto her bed. "Seriously, though. Are you coming over because I've got something or because I've asked you to?"

"A bit of both."

She rolled her eyes but laughed fondly. "See ya."

He was at the door twenty minutes later, and pulled her in for a quick kiss. She laughed and kissed the tip of his nose, then tugged him into the flat and shut the door. "When I told Papa you were coming by, he decided an emergency trip to Tesco was in order. I wasn't aware we were out of milk, but it turns out we are. Drink?"

He followed her into the kitchen. "Well, I'd reckon milk's out of the question."

She laughed and removed a carton of orange juice from the fridge, pouring each of them a glass, which they took into her room. She dropped onto her desk chair and he settled onto the edge of her bed, their usual seating choices. There was a pause as Marius sipped at his orange juice. "Well?" asked Cosette. "Aren't you gonna ask me what I have?"

His gaze flicked over to the stack of books on her desk, which included _A Detailed History of Post-Revolutionary France to 1950_. "Okay," said Marius. "What've you got?"

With dramatic flair, Cosette reached over and held up the history book. "So. A review. The June Rebellion was this student-led revolt in history, that took place in June 1832. No-one remembered it and everybody died. Right?"

"Right… what, did you find something more about it?" he asked earnestly, setting his now-empty glass of juice on the night table.

"No," said Cosette slowly, "but I _have_ tied it into a theory. A theory about what happened to Éponine."

"Okay. Do tell."

She told him about her visit to the bookshop, and of her conversation with Mr Evans. "… do you see what I'm saying? The June Rebellion was a _fixed point in time_. And sure, people forgot about it; I'll probably never see it on my History curriculum next year. But it had weight. It was important. It opened a hole in the fabric of space-time, and _that_ was what Éponine fell through. Mr Evans told me that forgotten points in time, like the June Rebellion, might somehow be even more important, and leave a bigger impression on the fourth dimension." She gave a small smile. "It was significant after all. I wonder if that would make Éponine feel better."

"Hang on." Marius held up a hand. "So Éponine fell through time – "

"And space."

"She fell through time and space, and ended up here. Okay. I'm fine with that theory. But _she_ just woke up here with all her memories of a life in 1832. But why her? Why her specifically? Why not someone who played a bigger role in the rebellion, like Enjolras? She did say he was the leader."

Cosette shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it was just random."

"And," Marius got up, "she said she remembered all of us being there with her in 1832, yeah? So why didn't all of us wake up in London 2015, all lost and disoriented? We grew up here. I remember growing up here, with my granddad."

She frowned, taking in what he said, and her eyes widened. "Marius. You're right. All of us grew up here in England. We've all got memories and photographs and legal records to prove that. I'm not doubting that I was born here and grew up here, with no connection to the 19th century or the June Rebellion or Éponine or any of that. Same goes for all of us. But we're _English_. Why hasn't it ever occurred to us that we all have French names?"

Silence fell between them.

At last, Marius said softly, "So you're saying… ?"

"I'm saying that there's got to be a reason for all these connections. I just need to find one."

He took one of the science books she'd checked out of the library. "What've these told you?"

She shrugged, taking it back and holding it out at arm's length, as if a thorough inspection might unveil all the answers she needed. "Not much, really. Mr Evans was the most useful one. Mostly, I've just been thinking myself." She paused. "I actually considered checking out a load of science fiction books, watching some of the films about people who've accidentally time travelled. Like that film with Hugh Jackman. Who knows, maybe there's a reason that there are so many similar sci-fi stories. The angle's always different – hard sci-fi or romantic comedy or thriller – but the idea's still there. None of the one's I've heard of have ever had a really feasible scientific explanation for everything though. I actually talked to Mr Evans about that a little – only the good sci-fi uses realistic scientific explanations."

Marius grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. "Ah-ha. So you've got to have _sci_ in your _fi,_ am I right?"

She winced. "Please never say that again."

"Sorry. Carry on."

Cosette tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, setting the book aside once more. "There's not much more to say, really."

"You said you had something."

"I told you – the theory I'm going with is the one Mr Evans suggested: that Éponine fell through time at a point in which _the weight of events stretched and weakened the very fabric of space-time_. That there was something especially significant about that event that affects the whole of future history. It seems sort of logical – or at least plausible , doesn't it?"

Marius lifted a shoulder. "I suppose. If we're assuming she really did come from 1832. I don't think the word _logical_ really applies to _this_ situation though, does it?"

"True. And I know that the lot of you boys don't think she really _did_ come from 1832. I had to doubt it at first myself, 'course I did. But I think that now, crazy as it sounds, I may have stopped doubting her."


	18. Chapter 18

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

…

After grabbing a few necessities at Tesco, her father had gone out for a pint, and taken his time at it. Cosette didn't mind; she doubted her father would ever get along with Marius. She supposed her having secretly dated him for a full seven months before announcing she had a boyfriend had something to do with it. It had been the only time Papa had ever expressed anger at her.

He'd been sure to be out long enough that when he returned, Marius would have left. He returned at 11pm to see the flat quiet, and found Cosette sprawled on her stomach on her bed, surrounded by books, sheets of ruled paper, highlighters, and pens. He chuckled, leaning in the doorframe. "What's this, then?"

She rolled over. "I'm organising my thoughts. Taking notes."

He crossed the room, sitting at her desk chair. "About your theories on the Éponine girl."

"Mm-hmm. Please, Papa, don't make me go to bed yet; I really think I'm getting somewhere."

"All right. You are on holiday. But no later than midnight, all right, Pet?" Her Papa picked up a sheet of paper and looked it over. It was covered in Cosette's neat and tiny print. Her notes were carefully colour-coded with her multicoloured pens and highlighters. He raised an eyebrow. "You really _are_ putting a lot of thought into this."

"I feel like I've got to," Cosette said earnestly. "I don't think most of the boys believe her. They just think she's some poor nutter. But I do. Believe her, I mean."

"You were saying." Papa frowned, quickly scanning her notes. Then he held the paper up. "This is all very well thought out. And your notes are very organised." He nodded at the Physics books spread out over her duvet. "I thought you hated Maths and Physics," he teased.

She sat up, taking her paper back with a laugh. "Yes. But this is different."

"I just wish you'd had notes like these for your exams."

"Oh, go away."

Papa laughed, but stood up. "No later than midnight, d'you promise?"

"Yes, yes." Cosette propped herself up on one elbow. "See, I've got this one idea. It came to me just after Marius left. He brought up this really interesting question: if our namesakes were all at that rebellion then why is she the only one who experienced waking up in 2015? The lot of us hold memories of being born and raised in England. If we didn't fall through time, why are we here? Why was it different for her?" Now sitting up, Cosette reached for _A Detailed History of Post-Revolutionary France to 1950_ and held the tome up as though to emphasise her point. "I read the passage on the June Rebellion a few times over, even scanned the passages on the immediate aftermath of the French Revolution, and I thought a lot about what Éponine told me. Her experience. And then I got this totally mental idea that might answer that question."

Papa nodded slowly, sitting down. "Go on. Run it by me."

"It's probably going to sound _very_ bizarre. I mean, I'm no physicist."

"Run it by me anyway."

So she told him.

When she had finished, her father sat in silence for a long time, mulling this over. Cosette sat on the edge of the bed, anxiously waiting to be told that her idea was absurd. At last, she could wait no longer and prompted, "So what d'you think?"

There was another pause. At last, her father said, slowly, emphatically, "I think… you should go to Enjolras' tomorrow early, and you should tell him and Éponine about this theory of yours. Tell them everything you've got."

…

There was a second mug of strong tea afterwards, and then a third. Enjolras, who tended to be fairly resilient to the effects of caffeine, was beginning to feel a slight buzz. One more, he reckoned, and he'd be bouncing off the walls like a kid. Éponine seemed to be doing fine, though.

They had moved to the table, and sipped at their mugs. Enjolras had put out a dish of Jammie dodgers, though neither of them ate very many. It was in that moment, as they both sat drinking tea, that Enjolras found himself taking in the sight of the girl in front of him, and came to fully realise the significance of the decision he had made in choosing to invite her to spend his life with her. He was not thinking about the technicalities of it, certainly not.

Because here was a girl who had inspired him to do the one thing he'd once been convinced he would never do: fall in love. He found himself taking in the beauty of her for the first time without shying from such thoughts; he lingered on her every detail. The shape of her under her dress, her long and tangled dark hair. Her face. Her cheeks-lips-nose-eyes. Sloe brown eyes that regarded him with a seemingly similar sense of want.

And he thought back on the kiss. Reflecting on it, on the taste and essence of her, on finally being able to express his longing and on his delight at discovering she shared that want. It was evident neither one of them regretted the kiss, on the contrary. If he were less pragmatic, or if he were Grantaire, Enjolras had no doubt he'd have already dragged her to the sofa and would have been snogging her for hours on end. He supposed a more primal part of him still wanted to be overtly passionate, but for now he was content simply to sit and drink tea and look.

He noted that Éponine had gone suddenly quiet. He frowned, reached across the table to take one of her small hands in his. "You all right, Éponine?"

She looked up and nodded quickly, smiling. "Oh, yes. I was simply thinking of what I have seen of your apartment, and of the necessities it houses. It is odd, but I have seen neither washbasin nor clothesline. However do you wash your clothing? I shall be in need of doing the laundry soon, for I've no desire to wear trousers. Do you send it to the washerwoman?"

Enjolras smirked, but at seeing her genuine puzzlement he explained patiently, "We don't really wash clothes by hand anymore these days. You know, just like the dishes?"

"Oh! So do you put the clothes in the dish-washing cupboard, then? Had you told me, I might have done so myself an age ago. I really only have one skirt left, though I'd rather wear clothes that are dirty over trousers, given the choice."

"No. No, no, not in the dishwasher." Enjolras cringed at the very prospect. Mind you, he had no idea what would happen if one did put their clothing in the dishwasher, but he didn't care to find out. "There's a place where we take the clothes, a place that has machines where they're washed; they're called laundrettes. I usually take my clothes over there once in a fortnight."

He'd assumed she'd take his explanation with a nod of the head, but this time Éponine was stubborn. "Why not? The cupboard that washes dishes and the machines at these laundrettes, they serve the same purpose, do they not? We always used the same washbasin for clothing and for dishes and that served us just fine. To have two machines seems absurd, and sounds like a great deal of bother besides. No. I will put my clothes in the washing cupboard and save us both the trouble of venturing to this laundrette."

Enjolras shook his head. "No, no. Éponine. You really don't want to put your clothes in the dishwasher. They just… work differently. The, er, mechanics inside them are different. Make sense?"

She looked sceptical, but she nodded. "Very well. Then tomorrow we must travel to the laundrette."

"Right."

Another silence fell between them, until at last it struck Enjolras that there was something he had yet to tell Éponine. It now seemed absurd of him to have kept it secret from her for all this time, and he found he did not know what had motivated him to do so in the first place. A lack of trust? To Enjolras now, the very idea of not trusting Éponine was inconceivable.

So he drained his third mug, clasped his hands together, and cleared his throat. Her gaze flicked upwards and a tiny smile played on her lips, slightly cheeky. "Yes?"

He ran his fingers through his hair. "D'you remember how, on your second night here, we went to the Musain for this meeting I had and you talked to the boys? You told each of us everything you knew about us. Which was downright scary, by the way."

She nodded.

"We said we'd put what was scheduled for the meeting on hold for a bit, until we sorted everything out. D'you remember that?"

Éponine nodded again.

"I'm sorry I never told you the truth before."

She wrinkled her brow in confusion, but she refrained from saying a word. Enjolras faltered, then ambled on, "Basically, my mates and I formed this little group when Marius and I were in our first year of uni. We're the youngest; most of the others are working towards their graduate degrees, whereas I'm about to go into my fourth year for my undergrad. Er, I don't know how university degrees worked back in your time. Anyway, as I was saying. We formed this little group of radicals, shall we say. The lot of us were unhappy with the government. It started out as a club that Combeferre had founded, but they somehow wound up nominating me as club president in second year.

"But not everyone was happy with us having meetings at uni, so we started meeting off-campus, in our spare time."

Éponine's confusion morphed into concern; distress, even. "Radicals, you say? Oh, _no_."

"How d'you mean? I thought you sympathised with the cause of our 19th century selves. You said so."

"No, no, it isn't that. I'm only worried you mean to do something just as drastic. Oh, but you mustn't host another revolution! You mustn't! I, I've _told_ you what happened to you all in my time! I thought you _understood _what that means, what I have undergone. You shall be killed if you plan to put up another barricade. The army shall come in and have you all murdered." She shot to her feet. "My _brother_ fought among you, and he is part of your little group in this world, too. You all died once. I will not let it happen again." All the tenderness in her expression that had come in their kiss was gone. In its place was a fiery determination and defiance, just daring him to protest her words.

"Éponine – " Enjolras put his hands up in an attempt to placate her.

"I may not have _seen_ you die, but it happened. 'Tis in the book! No. I shall not allow it, and I most certainly shall not allow you to include my brother among your numbers. Not even the La – Cosette should be there."

"_Éponine_," said Enjolras emphatically. "Calm down. Listen."

She sat, but she still looked positively livid.

"Éponine, nobody's going to put up any barricades. While what we're doing as a student group doesn't make the government happy, but we're not doing anything illegal. We run a column in the student paper, and write for a blog – that's kind of like a column in the student paper, but it's… oh, you'll find out."

Éponine took in several deep breaths. "In my time, Jehan wrote pamphlets, and propaganda poetry. He had to run from the police many times when he was caught passing them out in the square."

"Well, that's not quite illegal anymore. One of the benefits we've got now is something called freedom of speech, and freedom of assembly. So long as we're peaceful, we're legally allowed to say and write what we want."

She nodded. "Freedom of assembly… yes, I have but heard of it."

"There you go. No-one's going to arrest us, let alone have us executed. Times have changed, Éponine. And, and another thing we're doing is we're hoping to organise a peaceful protest against some of the government's recent actions." When her temper began to flare again, he lifted a hand. "_Peaceful_. No guns, no barricades. Just a parade marching with banners and such. We just need to recruit more members first."

She still looked reluctant, but she nodded slowly. "Do you promise me you are safe?"

"I promise." He took her hands in his, and she did not pull away. "Don't you trust me?"

A tiny smile ghosted over her face. "But of course I do."

"There we go, then."

Éponine suddenly beamed at him. "It is good to know you have not changed so much. Enjolras, making the world a better place for the people. Still you fight for the dream you conceived of all those years ago. I am proud of you, Enjolras." She straightened. "If I might do so without an invite, I should be glad to join your cause."

"Happy to have you," he smiled back.

"But at least some of the world you dreamed of back in my time has come to exist. 'Twas not such a lost cause. And now you fight to bring in the rest of it."

Enjolras thought of the versions of he and his friends Éponine had known in 1832. He imagined himself clad in a waistcoat and cravat, hosting political rallies in a cobblestone street with dilapidated buildings on either side of him, willing to give his life for his cause. Would he still be willing to give his life for what he believed in? He didn't know. Humanity had been more oppressed back then; there had been more to fight for. Still… "'We have nothing to lose but our chains,'" he quoted.

She looked on him with shining eyes. "That is quite beautiful. Is it yours?"

"No, that's Marx. He was a revolutionary writer. He came along a couple decades after your June Rebellion."

"He sounds wonderful. Your cause could have done with a man like him in my time."

"I reckon so."

There was a pause, then the pair of them turned their attention to their tea. It had since gone cold, but they sipped at it anyway. At last Éponine released a mighty yawn. Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Tired? After all that tea?"

She lifted a shoulder. "I am simply _exhausted_." She got up and yawned again. "If you would excuse me, I believe I shall prepare for bed."

"Hang on." Enjolras got to his feet, and she stopped, turning to face him. "I was thinking that we could – if you fancied – you know, share mine."

Éponine tilted her head, her features softening. "I love you," she said in a gentle, sympathetic tone, "truly. But I do not think I am ready for… _that_ yet."

"Well, we don't have to if you don't want to. We could just share the bed."

She blinked. "You mean, simply sleep, without making love?" she questioned baldly.

Enjolras nodded, and she smiled. "Very well, then. I should like that. Now, if you would give me a moment, I mean to ready myself. I shall meet you in your chambers." And with that, she slipped off to the lav.

She washed her face and cleaned her teeth the way Enjolras had shown her, then hurried off to what was once her own bedroom and gathered for the first time the nightdress given to her by Cosette. She stripped off her clothes, and before putting on the nightdress, studied herself naked in the mirror.

She turned from side to side, thoroughly examining her face, her hair, and, boldly, her body. Girls were not meant to study themselves so, naked as newborn babes, not even girls of her class, and it occurred to Éponine that this was the first time she'd done so, and she revelled in the freedom of it. She was still pitifully thin, but at nearly eighteen years she had developed a woman's body that seemed to be made up all of curves – her neck, her legs, her torso. Éponine gathered her overlong dark hair and pulled it back with one hand, studying her bare shoulders. She stood for a long time, and found the sensation surprisingly liberating. Simply the ability to do so made her feel as though she had sprouted wings, for this was _her_ body, _her_ world, and for the first time no-one was trying to claim either one. She stood until it occurred to her that Enjolras must be wondering where she had gotten to, and she hastened to put the nightdress on.

He was sitting shirtless on his bed when she entered his chambers, but unlike last time, she did not tear her eyes away. He smiled at her, and she at him, and climbed into his bed, letting out a small sigh as he pulled the bed linens and duvet around both of them, neither one caring that the space was a bit small.

Éponine rested her head on his shoulder, staring into his eyes, those sharp black pupils surrounded by a startling blue, and leaned in for a kiss. Their lips met in a tender but quick declaration of love and want, and then they broke apart and she settled back into the comfort of his shoulder.

She traced circles on his bare chest, and without her having to ask him to, he drew her close. The feeling of being cradled in his arms, of the warmth his body provided, was the last thing Éponine knew before she fell asleep.

…

An old school binder containing nothing but a few notes hugged to her chest, Cosette packed herself into the constantly crowded lifts of Russell Square, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the other passengers, as the people entering the lift shuffled out through the doors opposite. She had tried ringing Enjolras earlier, but his mobile was dead, and although she had also sent him a text message, she was still waiting on a reply. Under ordinary circumstances, she might have waited to see if he was free to have her over, but Cosette was too eager, and as far as she was concerned, the Éponine situation was an urgent matter.

Upon exiting the Underground, she began to walk quickly towards Enjolras' flat complex. She hoped they would both be in. She knew that Enjolras was something of a recluse, choosing only to venture outside for food and meetings at the Musain.

Cosette arrived at Enjolras' building. She was about to enter and head up to his flat when she spotted two figures coming down the street towards her. Each of them seemed to be weighed down by a heaping rubbish bag of laundry. As they came closer, she saw that they were Éponine and Enjolras. She waved to them, and Enjolras lifted a hand and waved back.

"Perfect timing," she called out as they approached.

Enjolras laughed warmly, but Cosette noticed that Éponine's expression immediately turned cool. The blonde girl immediately deduced that the safest course of action was to maintain her distance. She offered Éponine a polite nod, nothing more, and was surprised when Éponine returned the nod, however curtly.

"Hi, Cosette," said Enjolras. "Coming in?"

Cosette glanced at Éponine. "Sure. That'd be brill. Want help with all that?" She tucked her binder under her arm. Her gaze flicked down to what should have been Éponine and Enjolras' free hands. They were intertwined, and it was apparent that neither of them was keen on letting go anytime soon. A fond smile of approval flicked over Cosette's face as she reached for Éponine's burden.

Éponine pulled away. "I am fine, thank you, Miss."

Enjolras jerked his head toward the entrance to his building. "Shall we?" Cosette nodded, following them up the steps. Éponine looked miserable.

"What's this about, then?" asked Enjolras over his shoulder. "Have you got more on the June Rebellion?" They had reached the door to his flat, and he set down the laundry to unlock the door.

"Better," Cosette replied as the door opened. She entered the flat and did a double take. Enjolras' apartment had never been neater. True, it had been unusually tidy the day she'd met Éponine, and had been in the same state when Éponine had revealed she loved Marius, but this was something new altogether. There were no dirty socks draped over the lamp and panel of the television; the table was devoid of papers; even when she looked into the kitchen, the sink was not overflowing with dishes.

She settled onto the sofa as Éponine lugged both bags of laundry into Enjolras' room, leaving them there before (reluctantly) rejoining the other two in the lounge. Enjolras, as if sensing the tension between the two girls, abruptly rose from where he was sitting on one of the dining chairs, clasping his hands together. "Right!" he exclaimed. "A cuppa, anyone?"

Cosette smiled. "Ta, Enjolras," and he escaped into the kitchen. Once it was just the pair of them, Cosette turned to Éponine.

"I know you resent me," Cosette said, "but if you don't mind, I really think you'll want to hear this."

Éponine would not look at her. "I shall hear what you have to tell me," she said briskly, "so long as I find your words useful."

Cosette faltered. "You will," she assured the other girl. "I get the feeling you'll quite want to hear what I have to say." Éponine shot her a sour look, and Cosette put her hands up. "I'm not asking you to like me. I'm just asking you to listen."

"Then perhaps you should begin speaking."

"Waiting for Enjolras."

"Hmph." Éponine made a show of turning her head away like a stubborn child. Her message could not have been clearer, and Cosette gave up, choosing instead to glance over the notes she'd accumulated the night before.

In reality, she'd stayed up well past the hour Papa had specified for her. She hated disobeying him, but she had been so very invigorated by her theorizing that she hadn't been able to bring herself to go to sleep. In a word, she was exhausted right now, and while the coffee she'd grabbed on her way here had helped, Cosette was still quite sleepy.

Enjolras returned with two mugs of black tea, which he offered to the girls, then quickly returned for his own. Cosette cupped her hands around the mug and inhaled the comforting aroma. Enjolras reappeared a moment later with milk and sugar, which he placed on the coffee table so that they were accessible to everyone. "Ah, _bless_," said Cosette. She reached for the sugar bowl, then handed it to Éponine first.

Éponine glanced at her in surprise. Unsure of the Lark's motives (for had they not established she resented the blonde girl?) she took the sugar bowl from her with a muttered thank you, dropping a sugar cube into her tea before passing it back.

Since they had entered the apartment, Éponine had suddenly found herself in the midst of a dilemma. She wanted to hate Cosette, and up until now, she'd been quite certain that she did. As a child, she had blamed the Lark for her family's sudden descent into poverty, for everything had turned rotten not long after the man in the yellow coat had come to take her away. She and Azelma had been asked to do chores, and the inn had begun to lose business. As she'd grown older, Éponine had come to understand that the inn losing business after the Lark had gone away was merely coincidental. Her father had been associated with all sorts of people, and he'd had debts that had been accumulating over the course of over five years. And yet, the child inside of her had still managed to find dislike for their old servant girl, for she'd served as an excellent scapegoat. And then, one year ago, when she'd run into the Lark again only to have her very own Marius fall in love with her, her hatred had been refuelled. Marius loving Cosette was a fine reason to detest the girl.

But really, she'd accepted that Marius would never love her long before he'd met the Lark. While his falling in love with her added salt to her wounds, Cosette could hardly be blamed for it all. Why, Éponine doubted that Marius had even told her that she existed. Subconsciously, Éponine had been aware that her resentment of the Lark was unjustified and petty, but she'd chosen to go on hating her, because it was so much easier to find someone to blame.

She did not know whether she still detested her world's version of Cosette. She supposed she ought not to. But that was no longer of import. For in this world, Cosette had shown her nothing but kindness and sympathy. Understanding, even: Cosette had been the first to believe her story. In this world, Cosette had not had anything to do with her family's inn, and she had not taken Marius away from her, for in this world, Éponine was long dead. In this world, she even made a poor scapegoat.

And now Éponine had Enjolras.

In short, Éponine was suddenly finding it difficult to truly hate the girl she had once thought of as the Lark.

"Thank you," she heard herself saying again, louder this time. She was trying for a more genuine tone.

Cosette smiled politely, but she looked a bit surprised herself. "No problem."

Enjolras was settling back into his seat, his own tea, brewed to his preference, cupped between his hands. "So, Cosette," he said, sounding like a schoolteacher encouraging a student. "Tell us what you've got, then."

Cosette set her tea down and picked up the first of her three pages of notes. "Right," she said, suddenly unsure of herself. She was just realising how difficult it would be to explain the time theories to Éponine. "You're not going to believe me, but I think I may have a half-decent explanation as to what happened to you, Éponine."

"But I know what happened to me," Éponine replied. "I was shot in 1832, then I died, and then woke up here with my wounds healed."

"Yes," agreed Cosette. "You know what happened to you physically, but you haven't the foggiest _why_."

Enjolras leaned forward. "Hang on. You're not saying… "

Cosette nodded. "A scientific theory? Yes. Well. Scientific-ish."

Éponine looked from Enjolras to Cosette. "Whatever are you implying? I do not understand."

"A possible scientific explanation as to why you woke up in 2015," Cosette hastened to clarify. When Éponine looked intrigued, if still a bit puzzled, she ambled on. "Éponine, do you know exactly what _time travel_ is?"

"I have heard it mentioned," she replied. "Though this term was never used in my time, I can more or less gather its implications. I understand it means to travel from one point in time to another, instantaneously and without aging, as I did, correct?"

Cosette was relieved. This might be easier, then. A tick, anyway. "Exactly. So you travelled through time, Éponine, only you didn't do it intentionally. It's more like you _fell_ through time." She went on to explain, slowly and agonisingly, the theory concerning the fabric of space-time and of fixed points she'd discussed with Mr Evans. Éponine, having had no exposure to science fiction of any kind, was often confused when Cosette unconsciously used terms that were universal in the 21st century but nonexistent in the 19th. Furthermore, even Enjolras was puzzled at times, for he'd read and watched far less sci-fi than Cosette. But over the course of a little over an hour, she'd managed to coach the two of them through a summary of everything she'd gotten out of her discussion with Mr Evans.

When she was done, Enjolras goggled at her. There was a brief silence, then at last he said, "Blimey."

Cosette nodded, then hurried on while they were in the appropriate mindset. "I think it's plausible, but that still leaves a fair few questions unanswered. For example – and I was talking to Marius and my Papa about this last night – why it was only Éponine who fell directly through time and why the rest of us seemed to have been reborn here or whatever, our futures predetermined, at least to a certain extent. So I filled in the blanks."

"Do you mean you merely came to your own conclusions?" Éponine enquired.

Cosette nodded, and Enjolras cut in, "And you came up with something plausible?" She nodded again. He leaned back in his chair, raking both hands through his hair. "_Blimey_. You, Cosette, are brilliant."

She laughed, but waved her notes in the air to recapture his attention. "I was wondering what it was that made you in particular, Éponine, so special – no offence. Why did _you_ just suddenly wake up in 2015, and not the rest of us?"

Éponine looked annoyed. "I'm sure I don't know."

"No," Cosette agreed, "but I've got an idea." She paused for dramatic effect. "Éponine, you were the first to be shot, weren't you?" _That_ got her attention. Something flashed over Éponine's expression and the brunette looked up, brow furrowed. "Your 'death' was the first of the June Rebellion, your blood the first blood to be spilt. That's got to mean something.

"_So_," Cosette went on, standing now, "maybe _that's_ got something to do with why you woke up here. The first death of a fixed point in time. Everyone else died, but that came later, in one great explosive battle. If someone were watching, that battle would have been so chaotic and violent it would've been hard to tell who was who. All that counted was who was a soldier and who was a student. But you, Éponine, are different."

She sat back down again, hands trembling slightly with excitement. "So there's this vulnerable point in time, the fabric stretches, and you fall through the gap, something that doesn't happen to the rest of us. And in your head there's us, or, the 1832 versions of us you knew. Your family, Marius, Enjolras, me, and the rest of the boys. Every person who played a significant role in your life. The _idea_ of us existed in your mind, so when you fell through time, we did too, only more indirectly. God, _we_ didn't matter. That was accidental, a side effect. So when you landed, there was a direct impact, but we landed differently. We were only an idea, not a physical body, so we had to grow into ourselves. It would certainly explain why we've all got French names."

Éponine frowned. "Does that imply, then, that when I died, I left no body behind? When I died, did I simply disappear?"

Cosette shook her head. "I thought about that, but I don't think so. I think it's more metaphysical than that. I reckon that you left a body behind, but you woke up here, too. And those of us that weren't at the battle – which is really just me and your family – went on living."

So Cosette's adopted father had fallen through time, too, then? Éponine wondered. She was surprised to learn he had apparently left such a significant footprint in her life. She thought back to the only time she had properly met him, when he'd given her the coin. Was it simply that, or something deeper?

"But you say this is mere theory?" Éponine said slowly.

Cosette shrugged apologetically. "'Fraid so. I don't imagine there'll ever be a way for us to know for certain. But I'd like to think it's good enough." She frowned. "Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Éponine did understand – for the most part, anyhow. She did not completely comprehend what Cosette meant by the _fabric of space-time_ and the _fourth dimension_, but in her reasoning, she did not need to. So she nodded.

It would seem, however, that Enjolras was not completely convinced. "But that doesn't explain why Éponine's shot wound seemed to heal."

Another apologetic shrug from Cosette. "I did think about that. The best I could come up with is that it was just a side effect of her falling through time, despite that her clothes were still all bloody. Remember, Éponine's physical body didn't fall through time; it's more like the idea of her did. The rest of us were just extensions to an already-existing idea. Like I said, secondary." She let out a long breath, then released a short little laugh. "Well, there you go."

Enjolras hesitated. "You really are brilliant, Cosette."

She lifted a shoulder modestly. "Well, then?" She turned to Éponine. "What about you, Éponine? What do you think?"

"I believe… " Éponine said slowly. "I believe 'tis as good an explanation as I might have hoped for."

If Cosette noticed Éponine's sudden kindness towards her, she said nothing. Her mobile suddenly began to produce a strange buzzing noise, and upon examining its faintly glowing screen she excused herself, saying she had to go and meet Marius. She bid the two of them goodbye, and, gathering her notes, left the apartment.


	19. Chapter 19

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

…

Éponine found herself staring emptily at the shut door long after Cosette had gone. It took Enjolras gently shaking her shoulder for a solid minute to revive her. "Forgive me," she said, turning her gaze on him. "I was lost in my thoughts."

"Right," said Enjolras, coming around the sofa. He leaned against the armrest. "Er, did you understand what Cosette was saying, really?"

She looked up at him in irritation. "Certainly I did. Her words were – strange, but yes. I understood. I asked questions, did I not?"

"You did." Enjolras paused. "Well, that's impressive, anyway, considering you haven't been exposed to modern science or even seen a single sci-fi film** – **or any film actually. We'll have to fix that sometime." Another pause. "But I get that you're in shock – it's a lot to take in – and, er, would you prefer if I just left you alone?"

She nodded. "Please." And Enjolras backed off.

The silence finally allowed Éponine a few moments to reflect upon her situation. She was not so much a person as she was an idea, fully realised in flesh and blood. In her own world, she had not survived, but she, the first to fall, had fallen again through time to this world. And there was absolutely no way she could return home.

This last she was already accepted, but everything that Cosette had revealed to her just minutes ago was unsettling. It seemed that each time she was ready to grow used to a situation, something would occur which would dramatically alter her perspective. She had thought she might grow used to this world, given time, and at the thought of sharing it with Enjolras, she welcomed the reality.

It was the strange noise emitting from Enjolras' mobile phone that startled her. Lost in her thoughts, she had not realised when he'd come round to sit beside her. Enjolras fished the mobile out of his pocket and studied it uncertainly. It struck Éponine that he had never used it directly in front of her.

"It's Courfeyrac. D'you want me to answer it?" he asked her. "I could just let it ring if you like."

"No," Éponine replied. "No, I should like to see you use it. It would be most interesting." She watched, genuinely fascinated, as he studied the object in his hands a moment longer, then finally tapped something on its panel and raised it to his ear.

"Hey," he said, and what followed was most puzzling: Enjolras spoke aloud, the mobile device to his ear, yet Éponine could hear but one side of the conversation. She supposed it must be very difficult to hear through this device if Enjolras had to press it right up against his ear like that. This was logical, she deduced: of course Courfeyrac would be difficult to hear being so far away, and she wondered why people did not simply go through the trouble of sending letters through messenger-boys or, God forbid, simply knocking on the door of whoever they desired to speak with. "… yeah, no, I'm here with Éponine … well, 's been a hell of a time, I can tell you that, mate … we have, actually … I can't exactly explain it over the phone, no … tonight? Oh. Er, I dunno … I reckon I ought to ask Éponine … "

Here he pulled his device from his ear and said to her in an undertone, "Courfeyrac's inviting us out for a pint tonight. A few of the others are coming too. D'you fancy coming along?"

She eyed him darkly. "I mean never to drink beer ever again in my life. 'Twas a hideous experience."

"Yeah, but you haven't _got_ to order alcohol. You could just have a coffee, or tea, or cocoa, or, or juice, or whatever you like."

Éponine considered. She would not have minded if only Grantaire would be there, whom she liked, but she was not sure she felt very comfortable around the rest of the group yet. She was fairly certain they all thought her mad, and was in no mood to face their pity and scrutiny. She shook her head. "No, thank you. I shall remain here, if I might. But you should go. It would be good for you to see your friends without me."

He looked hesitant. "You sure?"

"I am most positive."

Enjolras returned his mobile to his ear and said, "Yeah. All right, I'll come … no, just me … she's not a _child_, Courfeyrac, she doesn't need my _looking after_ … 6pm? I'll be there … yeah, fine … I told you, I'll tell you later; it's too complicated to explain over the phone … yeah, all right … bye." He pulled the device from his ear again and tapped at its panel again. He looked at Éponine then. "Are you sure you're going to be all right?"

She cocked her head to one side and, choosing to ignore this last, voiced a thought that had just struck her. "Poor Courfeyrac; you were not shouting."

He frowned at her. "Sorry."

"You were not shouting. It must have been very difficult for him to hear you through that machine of yours."

Enjolras shook his head, holding out his mobile in invitation for her to examine it. "He could hear me just fine; you don't need to shout."

Éponine, who could see no logic in this at all, decided to let the matter go. "I'm sure I shall be fine," she told him patiently. "You needn't fret so."

He took her hands in his, and his tone was genuine when he spoke. "I'm just worried about you. You sure you'll be okay?"

She brushed off his concern with a laugh. "Of course I am, you ninny. I know how to work the tap if I am thirsty, and how to help myself to fruit or biscuits if I am hungry. I am in no mood for social affairs tonight… I, I've a good deal of thinking to do, haven't I?"

"All right." Enjolras relented, but he still looked doubtful. He glanced at the clock. "Well. It'll be hours until I meet the boys. D'you still want some time to yourself?"

She nestled herself into a corner of the sofa. "Not anymore. I think I shall read; I mean to take my mind off things for a bit." She patted a spot next to her. "Come, you ought to read something too. You've a great many books to choose from, haven't you?"

Enjolras glanced at his bookshelf. 95% of its contents had been abandoned at some point or another, not because he hadn't liked the books, but because he'd been distracted by other obligations. Frankly he was in no mood to do any light reading at the moment, but he nodded. "I suppose I could do some revision," he said. "Get prepared for next year." He paused, then couldn't help but press. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to talk about what we just learned? Debrief?"

"I want only to distract myself." And she tossed a throw pillow at him.

…

He had left her with a kiss and a reassurance that he wouldn't be long. Éponine, in turn, had threatened to throw another pillow at him. She had told him she was having second thoughts about her love for him, which had earned her another kiss before he left.

Afterwards, Éponine had stood still in the middle of the living room for a long time long after her mild irritation had faded. (She truly did wish he would let her alone and understand she was quite capable of looking after herself). She found herself wondering, quite suddenly, if this was how their lives together would come to look. How many nights would he go out for drinks when she was in the mood for staying home? How many nights would he fuss about leaving her alone? (Actually, she dearly hoped tonight would be the first and last time he'd be making such a fuss).

She eventually wandered to the sofa and simply sat as her mind wandered back to her situation. She did not know how long she sat there; the ticking of the clock faded into white noise. There was just Éponine and her thoughts.

At some point she wondered when Enjolras would return. She was surprised to find that she felt – no, not lonely, exactly. She pondered, and in a minute she had it – she felt almost _bored_. Boredom was to Éponine something of a novelty. She had not had the time to feel bored since childhood. She picked up _Jane Eyre_ and read a few pages, but even the story that had captivated her so would not ease her boredom.

She stood and wandered to the balcony, swinging her legs over the railing and perching there. The city below seemed to be beckoning to her all of a sudden, the life that thrummed there was all but calling her name. How she wished to be a part of the city, and to see more of London – not with Enjolras as her guide, but exploring by herself. She found she rather missed wandering the streets as she had done in Paris. Why could she not do so here? London was a strange new city, it was true, but Enjolras had taken her for enough strolls that she had a good sense of the neighbourhood, and her sense of direction was infallible. Why should she not go out and explore a little by herself if it suited her?

Éponine found a bit of paper in Enjolras' chambers, lying beneath an upturned cup of pens. With one of the pens, she scribbled a note in her very best penmanship: _I have gone out for a stroll and shan't be long, you mustn't worry about me, I will be fine. – Your Éponine_.

She left the note lying on the table, and with that, she went out.

Naturally she had no clue where it was she was going, but she wandered the area aimlessly, content to take in the pleasant summer evening. In her mind she forged a mental map of each turn she had made, noted every small landmark. She walked around the square with the fountain in it – Russell Square, she recalled with a touch of pride – and then went on walking, eager to see what lay beyond the neighbourhood that was already growing to be familiar. The people she passed took no notice of her; she was merely a part of the landscape; a local. And how refreshing it was to simply melt into the scenery and go about unnoticed! She had grown half-sick of being the subject of such curiosity all the time. The feeling was so refreshing that Éponine developed a slight skip to her step, and began to hum absently to herself so that she forgot to note a few of the turn she made. She passed a couple of great glass buildings, one of which seemed to made up of angles and walls that stuck out in odd places, and these she could not help but notice and stop to stare at. But soon she would go on walking.

She did not realise just how far she had wandered until she found herself across the street from what appeared to be a major square. She had only seen such a crowd twice before; once, at General Lamarque's funeral; the second time, by the Thames. Even here on the sidewalk, a safe distance away, it was packed. Every off-shooting street was busy with cars. Éponine stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and froze. The people rushed by her at alarming speed, elbowing by her, speaking into their mobile phones. Some stopped in their tracks to stare at the dimly glowing panels on their mobiles or to study maps. Others, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone, stopped to hold out their mobiles at arm's lengths and burst into beaming smiles, hold the position for a few moments, then move on. A few of these held their mobiles out in front of them by a long metal rod. Some people hurried by with no baggage at all; others were weighed down by bulging paper bags.

Strangest and most overwhelming of all, however, were her surroundings. Most of the surrounding buildings were old and majestic, but they had been… changed, their walls covered in brightly coloured panels. She might have taken them to be unusual posters if not for the fact that they were glowing and flashing and _moving_ as if by magic. The images moved! More curious still was the fact that no-one else seemed astonished by the images on the panels. While some stopped to look at them, their expressions did not register even a flicker of surprise. Éponine gaped, her eyes wide as she drunk the sight in and she found herself beginning to breathe hard.

And such noise and ruckus! Such rush! She stumbled as she was nearly toppled over by a man in suit and tie sprinting through the square, a large briefcase in his hand. Suddenly she found herself thrust into a throng of people, who veered sharply around her and threw out remarks in rude, irritated tones. "What do you think you're doing, blocking the way like that… " Meaning to get out of their way, Éponine stumbled, tripping over her own feet, directly into the busy street.

For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, dazed and struggling to recover her breath. Next moment, she heard a loud honking noise from behind her. Gasping, she spun around to see one of the cars, this one grey and especially large, heading her way. The honking noise came again and she dove back onto the sidewalk just as the car managed to come to a sudden stop. But in her sudden movement, she tripped over the elevated kerb and fell roughly to the pavement, wincing as she scraped her elbow. She lay there a moment, trying to recover.

"You all right, love?" A hand materialised above her and gratefully she took it with a murmured thank you. Its owner helped her to her feet, then said, "Hang on – 'Ponine?"

"Grantaire!" she exclaimed, and relieved, threw her arms about his neck. He patted her shoulder before releasing her. "Why, Grantaire, whatever are you doing here?"

"_Me_? Never mind that, I was on my way to get a pint in town – what are _you_ doing in Piccadilly on your own, love? Where's Enjolras?"

"Enjolras went out with some of the others for a drink at the Musain. I thought you would have been among them. I did not wish to go, so I stayed in the apartment. Well, for a while, anyhow. I decided to go for a walk, but I got rather lost." She looked down and began to dust herself off, then winced. She examined her elbow to see that it was badly skinned, though it was not bleeding.

"I can see that." Grantaire smiled.

She looked around, comforted by a familiar presence in these overwhelming surroundings, her shaky breathing finally evening out. "What is this place?"

"Piccadilly Circus," said Grantaire with flair. He glanced at her sidelong, a brazen half-smile playing on the corner of his lips. "Why? You like it?"

She didn't answer for a long time, and when she did, all she said was, "I think I shall be heading back now. I do believe I've had quite enough of this part of the world for now." She turned in the direction from whence she had come – or so she thought. Turning in a slow circle, Éponine realised that nothing looked familiar. She turned, embarrassed, to Grantaire. "I really must be quite lost," she said sheepishly. "Might you point me in the right direction towards home?"

"Oh, 'Ponine – I can do better than that!" Grantaire laughed, putting an arm around her shoulders. Had she not been so familiar with his ways, Éponine might have felt uncomfortable, but she knew that the student meant nothing by it – nothing much, anyway. "I'll take you back to Enjolras'." One dark eyebrow arched in a question as he suddenly repeated, "'Home'?"

She nodded, hating the dependence she had on him now. "If you would be so kind. But I thought you were to go for a drink. I shouldn't want to hinder you… "

"I can drink any old time, love." Grantaire squeezed her shoulder, then let go. He snapped his fingers and pointed towards the nearest street shooting off from the square and began to walk – perhaps _swagger_ might have been a more accurate description – in that direction. Éponine quickly caught up with him, and as she followed him he continued: "I might as well pop by the Musain if I'll be in the area. I was going to go in town, but it doesn't matter where. A beer's a beer."

"Oh, but they must make it better at certain pubs, no?"

"Nah. So," Grantaire's hands slipped into the pockets of his trousers, "how's things?" At her look of puzzlement, he chuckled. "How are you faring?" he said in lofty tones. She looked up at him, unsure of how to answer. Indeed, where could she begin? A look of understanding settled over Grantaire's features. "Have you solved anything?" he asked, gently.

It was then that Éponine realised that if Enjolras was to be her love in this world, then Grantaire was to be her friend. It seemed intuitive, really. Over the course of most of the walk, she burst. She told him everything. Everything as she understood it.

She told him about her love for Marius, and of her heartbreak. She told him, _truly_ told him, of how afraid she had been of this world when she'd first entered it, and how lonely, apprehensive, and out-of-place she still felt, despite that she had people she could turn to now. She told him of the news Cosette had gathered on the June Rebellion, of how they had all been killed violently. And, of course, she told him of the theory Cosette had related to her not ten hours ago. The only thing she omitted was her unjust resentment of Cosette.

"Cosette believes that, when I arrived in this time, I brought you with me through my knowledge and concept of you in my head. I believe that you all _had_ to exist here," Éponine said as they began to enter familiar territory: she recognised Russell Square. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was amazed: had they come so far already, or had she not travelled as far as she'd thought? Piccadilly Circus seemed to be in a different universe from Enjolras' quiet neighbourhood. "She said that you arrived differently, as ideas, that had to take root and grow."

She had been expecting Grantaire to be flabbergasted, confused, overwhelmed, in denial. She had been expecting him to be gaping at her open-mouthed, had been expecting a response such as "Come again?" (A phrase she had learned was oft uttered in the year 2015, and one she was for whatever reason fond of). But instead, Grantaire's expression was thoughtful.

"It… makes sense, I think," he said. "I definitely understand what she means. I mean, it's all sort of mind-blowing, but yeah, I understand."

"And you… believe her?" Éponine ventured warily.

"I do," he said sincerely. "But if Cosette's theory is right, then we owe our very existence to you." His eyes took on a more characteristic twinkle. "Does that make you sort of like our mother?"

Éponine laughed. "I suppose it does rather, yes." Now they turned the corner onto Enjolras' street. They stopped, and she stepped in front of him. "Thank you, Grantaire," she said. "For everything."

…

Enjolras was already back when she walked into his flat. He was pacing the sitting room, raking his hands repeatedly through his hair with one hand, the other pressed to his mouth in a fist. The moment he heard the door open, he spun and made a beeline for her, seizing her in a hug. "God, Éponine," he said. "Where the hell've you been? I got home bloody ages ago and you were bloody _gone_. I've been worried sick!" He let her go long enough to hold her by both cheeks and press a kiss against the crown of her head; then he was embracing her fiercely again. "Jesus Christ, don't you ever to do that to me again!"

She wriggled free. "I left a note," Éponine insisted. "Did you not see it?"

He produced it from his pocket and waved it in the air. "'I have gone for a stroll,' you said. What's that supposed to mean? I didn't know where you'd gone; you don't know the city. How easy would it have been for you to get lost, eh? Or, or get hit by a car, or, I don't know, have something equally terrible happen to you?"

Éponine crossed her arms and made for the sofa, dropping onto one side of it with an air of nonchalance. "I did not go far, and I was fine. Silly Enjolras, I did tell you that you mustn't worry. You must also learn to listen, it would seem. Look, I'm here now, am I not? In one piece and quite unharmed, sitting in front of you."

He dropped onto the sofa next to her, deflating. There was a long pause, then, "So where'd you go?"

"I hardly know."

More silence. Éponine did not know how long it lasted, but it seemed to stretch into infinity. Relieved tension gave way to listlessness. She was about to say something – ask him, perhaps, how his night out drinking had been – when the silence was instead punctured by the same strange ringing noise that came from Enjolras' mobile. They both jumped.

Enjolras' hand went for his pocket and he studied his device's panel screen. "It's an unknown number," he announced.

"A what?"

"I don't know who it is," he explained as it continued to ring.

"Then how can they… call you?"

"Well, it's either people selling stuff or, more likely, someone I never added to my contacts." Enjolras continued to study it sceptically. "Shall I answer it?" She nodded, and he raised it to his ear as he had done earlier that day. A pause, then, "Hello?"

Éponine waited, and watched as his face took on a strange expression. "Hang on a tick," he said, and briefly drew the device away from his ear. "Éponine," he said, "I'm going to do something with this right now. I'm going to press a button that will let both of us hear the person calling and be able to speak with them, without having to press it to our ear. I think you want to hear this conversation. Okay?" When she nodded, bemused, he tapped something on the mobile's panel and balanced it upon his knee.

"It's Azelma, as you've probably guessed," her sister's voice emerged, tinny and soft, as though she were trapped in the mobile itself and were calling out through a crack. Éponine's eyes widened, and frankly she wasn't sure what surprised her more: the way she could hear her voice so clearly, or that Azelma was "calling" in the first place.

"Gavroche gave me your number," she continued. "Listen, Enjolras, have you got a car?"


	20. Chapter 20

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Twenty

…

As it happened, Enjolras did not have a car. Like most people living in central London, he had no need of one with the nearest Tube station just blocks away. Not that he was prone to using his Oyster card very often, either. His flat was within walking distance of the nearest Tesco, various takeaway venues, the Musain, and the university – the only places in London he frequented. He couldn't remember the last time he had taken himself further afield to the Natural History Museum or to one of the Tate galleries, as his friends were wont to do on free weekends.

Nor was he a particularly good driver. He _did_ have a licence – one of the few things his father had done in raising him was to provide driving lessons from a private instructor at the age of sixteen. Of course he was never able to cruise around in his father's treasured black Jag – and it had been years since Enjolras had been behind the wheel of any car.

He'd warned Azelma of this, who'd said she couldn't care less. So it was Éponine that he was really worried about as he walked over to St Pancras the following morning, on his way to the nearest car rental.

Éponine had remained at the Musain, where they'd gotten their breakfast. Musichetta had been serving, and the two had struck up a conversation, seeming to be getting on smashingly. Musichetta didn't seem to believe Éponine's story any more than the rest of the boys, even when Enjolras had explained Cosette's theory, but then, she didn't really care, either. She'd been happy to vent a long series of complaints to Éponine – about some of the customers she had to serve, many of whom would take in the sight of her far too liberally; about the weather in England; about her boyfriend – and Éponine had seemed to be greatly enjoying listening.

It was probably better, Enjolras mused, than bringing her along to the car rental. She had not been keen on riding in one of the "metal boxes," which seemed to her so much smaller and confined than carriages or hansom cabs – not, she'd said, that she had ever ridden in one of those either. Despite the fact that she'd agreed to Azelma's request, she'd been very sullen about the whole affair this morning as they'd been on their way to breakfast before heading out to rent the car.

"But it _shall_ be good to see her again," Éponine had said while enjoying her bacon and eggs. "If she truly means to do it, then I am proud of her. It's good for her to develop a bit of defiance. I hope she walks straight out of that apartment the day she turns eighteen!"

Enjolras could only agree with Éponine's words, he reflected as he joined a small queue that had formed at the car rental. Azelma seemed to finally be developing the sense of independence she needed, and he hoped that she would put it to good use by finding her own way as soon as she was recognised as a legal adult. He didn't know her well, but it astounded him that she was related to Gavroche and Éponine, for those two were so self-reliant it had gone straight through liberty into outright defiance. Enjolras had suggested they report her parents to the police, but Éponine had completely refused.

Ah, well, he thought as he now stuffed his hand into his pocket in search of his driver's licence. That was another matter that would have to be dealt with another time, though hopefully not too far in the future. Right now, he had a car to rent and a road trip to go on.

…

Azelma slipped out of the house at the crack of dawn the following day. Although Dad was there, he was fast asleep and snoring quite loudly where he lay sprawled on the sofa. He and some of his friends had gotten themselves proper pissed last night, as they did most nights, something for which Azelma was grateful. One, it meant that she would have little problem sneaking out at first light; two, he'd be too busy nursing his hangover to really notice or care that she was gone; and three, she wouldn't have to be there to put up with his moaning and foul mood when he woke up.

Mum never woke up past 10am these days, so she was hardly an issue.

Azelma took very little with her – some more money, which she'd had the foresight to nick the night before when no-one was home; a banana; her deodorant stick; and a photograph of her sister. The sister _she'd_ known. It was a school photo, wallet-sized, that Azelma had long since stuffed at the back of her wardrobe to avoid unearthing painful memories. The Éponine she'd known was smiling in the picture, her dimples prominent, her dark hair neatly combed and plaited by their mother for photo day and her uniform clearly ironed.

Azelma didn't really know what she meant to do with the picture today – show it to Enjolras and the other Éponine, maybe. She didn't know if she wanted to yet. She sort of wanted to keep the photograph to herself.

Azelma double-checked to ensure that all of these items were in the old schoolbag in which she'd packed them, then quickly and quietly slipped out the door. Down the street. Another Underground ride to Russell Square. The whole trip, from boarding the train to switching lines to settling onto the second train, her heart was beating so loud and fast she was sure that every passenger on the Tube could hear it. But for the first time in forever, it wasn't beating with fear, but with anticipation, the uncertain pleasure in carving her own path.

…

Before Azelma arrived, Éponine had taken to pacing along a small stretch of sidewalk, her arms crossed over her chest. She kept stealing nervous glances towards the car, which Enjolras had managed to park just in front of his flat complex. He watched her with a touch of sympathy from where he leaned against the boot.

"You can sit at the front with me, Éponine," he had finally said. "There's more leg room than in the back."

She had glanced over at him, shaken her head fleetingly, and taken to pacing again. "I'd really rather not think about the ride until I must face it."

"We'll make stops. To stretch our legs, get some air. It's not that long a ride… considering. Well. All right, I won't lie. It'll seem pretty long to you; you're not used to these sorts of trips."

"How long did you say it was?"

Enjolras had winced slightly. "Er, about three hours via the A31?"

"Oh, whatever was wrong with horses?"

Éponine was at this point clearly regretting her decision to ask to visit Weymouth, whereas Enjolras was regretting agreeing to take the girls there – mostly for Éponine's sake.

A few minutes passed, with no words spoken between them, and save for the distant sound of cars and the twittering of birds, it was dead quiet on the street. They were interrupted, then, by the sound of trainer-clad feet slapping against the pavement, coming towards them at considerable speed. Both Enjolras and Éponine looked up to see Azelma all but sprinting towards them, a bag bouncing at her hip. She stumbled to a stop before them, bending over to catch her breath. "Hi," she gasped out between pants.

"Er, hi," Enjolras said, somewhat awkwardly.

Azelma looked anxious. "Sorry if I'm late. I got out quick as I could, but then there was some kind of hold-up at Covent Garden and… "

"Er, no problem. You know, when I set the time, it was a fairly lenient window." Enjolras glanced at his watch. "I mean, you're ten minutes late, and it's not like either of us were watching the clock."

"Oh," said Azelma, a flush rising to her pale cheeks. "Well, then." She glanced over at Éponine. Her mouth opened and closed, then, as if unsure how to properly greet her, she merely offered a tiny nod. "Good to see you both, then. I mean. Sorry." She blushed harder than ever. "I'm not very used to this sort of thing."

"No harm done," said Enjolras in jovial tones. "D'you want to head off, then? I mean – " Now it his turn to look sheepish – "You ready?"

Azelma merely shrugged, pulling open the door to the back seat. She climbed in and shut the door behind her.

Éponine looked to Enjolras.

Leaning against the car, he gave her a tiny smile. "You ready, love?"

She scrutinised the car's interior through the passenger-side window, then gave a small nod. "Yes." He held the door open for her, and she climbed in.

She jumped when Enjolras shut the car door for her, then stiffened as she realised just how enclosed she was. However did people manage to get about in such tiny, cramped spaces? There was scarcely room for her to stretch her legs! Éponine shifted around uncomfortably. She twisted in her seat to see Azelma, because it was clear that the back of the car was even less roomy than the front, although Azelma didn't seem uncomfortable or claustrophobic, and yet again Éponine found herself wondering at how easily people had become resilient to discomfort.

Enjolras swung into the car then, buckling his seat belt. He shoved the key into the ignition and gave Éponine a sidelong glance. "All right there?"

She sat rigidly in her seat, her hand on the buckle of the seat belt. "I shall be fine. I just… I may need a moment."

"Sure." Enjolras paused, then leaned over. "D'you want me to roll down the windows? Get some air?" When she looked at him in puzzlement, he explained: "Leave the windows open."

She looked relieved. "Oh, yes, please."

"Right. Just need to start the car first… " Now Enjolras turned to face Azelma. "You all right?" At her nod, Enjolras twisted the right way round again and placed one hand on the steering wheel, one on the key still in the ignition. "Well, if you two are ready… off we go, then."

…

The car ride to Weymouth was, to Éponine, one long agony. It was even worse than riding on the bus. Perhaps sitting so close to the ground had something to do with it, of seeing the other cars whipping by them at alarming speeds. Despite her trust in Enjolras, she was terrified that one of those cars would crash into theirs, and before they hit the motorway, she started each time people crossed the road in front of them. Although Enjolras always stopped when he was meant to stop, there was one instance when a small child sprinted out in front of the car in pursuit of a tennis ball, and the close call was enough to leave Éponine's hand clamped over her mouth for a solid minute afterwards. And, of course, there was the fact that the car was so much smaller than the bus.

Her discomfort was obvious to Enjolras, and he did his best to accommodate for her. They paused at several motorway rest stops for her to step out, stretch her legs, and catch some air. She complained very little, but she looked pale and slightly green. Enjolras asked her on numerous occasions if she was all right, to which she pressed her lips together and nodded her head weakly.

Azelma, for her part, was quiet. Enjolras allowed himself, briefly, to wonder what Azelma might be doing if she weren't sitting in the back of the rental Fiat right now, driving off to her hometown with the original version of her dead sister and her boyfriend. Probably just sitting about that ramshackle flat, he reflected, eating Walker's and watching daytime telly.

"How long've we been driving?" As if she could sense that he was thinking about her, Azelma suddenly spoke up.

Enjolras glanced at the dashboard clock, then studied her in the rear view mirror. "'Bout an hour and a half."

Éponine gave a little moan.

Azelma groaned, too. "I'm starved." She reached for the bag she'd brought with her and pulled out a bruised banana. She studied it with distaste for a moment, then shrugged and went ahead unpeeling it. Enjolras turned his focus back to the road, but looked in the mirror again when he heard Azelma let out a disappointed little "oh." Her banana had gone a solid shade of brown, and her expression was crushed.

It was clear that the banana was all the food she'd brought with her. Enjolras, for his part, hadn't packed any snacks either, but he'd been meaning to grab a bite in Weymouth, and to pick up some food at a petrol station on the way too. "We'll stop at the next petrol station, yeah?"

"Okay. I've got ten quid," Azelma began, but Enjolras cut her off.

"Nah, I'll buy it."

Azelma looked as though she were about to protest, but perhaps her upbringing got the better of her, and she gave a mere nod and a mumbled, "Thanks." Then she leaned forward, peering out the windshield in front of her. Just as Enjolras was drifting back into driver's mode, she pointed. "Look, there's a station coming up in two miles."

Azelma nodded, and a sidelong glance at Éponine revealed that she was just as relieved by this news. At the petrol station, the three of them stepped out of the car to breathe in some fresh air and stretch their legs, pacing for a few minutes around the car park. Enjolras bought a proper stock of snacks for the remainder of the ride: Walker's, a pack of Jammie Dodgers, oversweet custard creams, and cheap tea of the kind that can only be purchased at a service area. Then they were on the road again, and no words were said between them.

…

Weymouth was a quiet harbour town, filled with Elizabethan buildings that looked ready to keel over but still maintained a certain charm. It smelled a little of fish, a little of cooking wafting from people's kitchen windows, and a little like life. The people were quiet but friendly. They recognised the trio as outsiders, but all greeted them warmly in their thick, distinct accents.

Éponine was enchanted by the place. There was a kind of communal warmth and aura about the place that reminded her, vaguely, of home – of Montfermeil. Once Enjolras had parked the car in a large area filled with other cars that he referred to as a "car park," the trio set out to wandering the seaside village. Azelma led the way through the streets, claiming that she knew exactly where the old location of the pub was. Any previous signs of nervousness she'd exhibited were gone, replaced by a kind of confidence that could only come from familiarity with her hometown.

"D'you really remember exactly where it is?" asked Enjolras, not exactly doubtfully, as he and Éponine trailed along behind her.

"Yeah," replied Azelma. "I didn't _think_ I would, but it hasn't really changed much. Look there – er, Ép – my sister and I, er… " she trailed off a moment, clearly uncertain as to which pronoun was most appropriate. "The two of used to get ice creams here," she finished, somewhat lamely. She pointed to a tiny shop at the nearest corner. "My favourite was always the lemon."

Éponine turned her head to study the ice cream parlour in fascination as they passed it; never before had she actually tasted ice cream. Montfermeil had been too small a town to have ice cream parlours, and in Paris they had never been able to afford it. A small queue had formed outside the shop and they passed a small child, happily licking his treat, which had already begun to melt all over his chin.

"This way," Azelma was saying. They rounded a corner and in less than a minute they'd stopped before what looked like a café. Metal tables and chairs had been set up outside the building.

Just one glance proved that the old location of this world's _Sergeant de Waterloo_ was much cleaner than the one in Montfermeil had ever been; but then of course, it was no longer owned by a Thénardier. Although clearly quite old, the building and its shutters had been painted a bright white. The shutters were wide open at the moment and on the sill sat a small vase of flowers. Through the window, Éponine could see that the café was quite modern, even in the sense of the 21st century. A sign above the glass door read simply, "Local Fish and Chips."

Azelma's brow was furrowed as she studied the place. "It's a chippie," she said, sounding half-amazed. "My family's old pub's been turned into a chippie."

Éponine frowned. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Hey? Oh… no. It's just, I dunno. _Weird_." Azelma crossed her arms over her chest. "It feels kind of weird that I wanted to come all this way just to see _this_."

"You are not comforted by being back home?"

"Home." Azelma snorted. "I guess it's the closest thing I ever had to one."

…

With Enjolras browsing the student bookshop, Éponine and Azelma wandered the streets for a while in search of the church cemetery. It did not surprise Éponine that the church was one of the few places in the village that Azelma could not remember where to find. "I swear the only time I ever went within a block o' the place was for the funeral," Azelma confided in Éponine. "Did they, I mean we, I mean, did your family go to church at all in your time? Like, everyone went to church in 1832, didn't they?"

"You said that you only ever went to church once in your life?" Éponine asked, and Azelma nodded. "Then you have visited one more time than I have."

Azelma stared. "Seriously? I mean, I'd reckoned people were all about God and religion and stuff back in your time."

"I believe that we were something of a scandal in my village. Mother used to force me to wear the most hideous and uncomfortable grey gowns on Sundays – Sunday dresses, she called them, and I imagine she had us wear them so that at least some would be fooled into thinking we'd been to Mass that morning. But I know nothing of God and the Bible, and I've sworn by the Lord's name more times than I can count."

Perhaps this earned her some degree of respect in Azelma's books, for she was offered a passing grin. "Anyway," Azelma spoke up. "Dad wanted her buried there cos it was cheaper'n making arrangements with a proper funeral parlour. We didn't leave for London much longer after the funeral. I was just a kid then, so I didn't really get why we were leaving, but I've got it all worked out now. Dad owed some money to some people, and the pub had got pretty shabby over the years. Place was a bleedin' dump. Dad had taken in this foster kid my age, I hardly remember her now, for a bit of extra cash, and had her do most of the cleaning and stuff. Some bloke came to collect her, and stuff went downhill from there."

Éponine started at the mention of a cleaning girl, but before she had a chance to say anything, she and Azelma had rounded another corner and found themselves just down the street from a small church. "Protestant," said Azelma out of the blue. "I think."

Éponine nodded slowly. She had never known anyone to be a Protestant before, and vaguely she wondered if they were very different from Catholics.

"Well, the cemetery should be just behind the church," said Azelma reasonably. She twisted the hem of her shirt into a knot. The two girls approached the church and spotted that the path leading to the building's entrance turned to the left just before the doors, winding around to the back of the church. This was the path they took, and found that directly behind the church was a cemetery of impressive size for so small a town. The headstones seemed to vary widely in age – some were half-crumbled and overgrown with moss, others looked no older than two or three years old and had flowers lain at their bases.

Azelma and Éponine picked their way about in search of the grave they had come to visit. As they searched, the incredible bizarreness of the situation struck Éponine – here she was, in the cemetery of a town she had never known existed before, searching for the grave of her 21st century, child self. It would be marked with her name, she thought, and with dates that would match her own age had she been born in this time. Of course, it was no less bizarre than falling through time and bringing with her all the people she knew, but at least she'd spent enough time pondering that situation that the otherworldly aspect had begun to fade.

It was Azelma who found the grave and called Éponine over – a very small headstone with moss beginning to grow at its base. Azelma had an unusually, but quite appropriately, solemn look on her face as Éponine joined her. She said nothing, and so Éponine silently read the words engraved on the headstone:

_ÉPONINE THÉNARDIER_  
_AUGUST 1998 – OCTOBER 2008_  
_BELOVED SISTER  
and daughter_

Éponine did not interrupt her as she mourned, but stood silently by her side, staring at the headstone and feeling unsure as to what she ought to be feeling. Grief? Sympathy? Did she have the right to feel so? Was she perhaps meant to feel nothing at all?

She could not have said how much time passed before Azelma, who had at some point dropped to her knees, stood up again, and suddenly laid her head on Éponine's shoulder. "Why'd I even want to come here, Éponine?" Her voice was quiet, numb.

Éponine was taken aback. "I – I couldn't say. 'Twas your decision, and we were both happy to come along."

"Do you feel like you got something out of it all?" Azelma paused. "_You_, I mean. Not me, not Enjolras. You."

"Well… " said Éponine. "I suppose not. It was most interesting to see the village in which my 21st century self grew, and it's very lovely here. But we came for you, Azelma."

"I don't even know why I wanted to come. I think I just wanted to come back for a bit."

"A perfectly good reason."

"I think… " Azelma faltered, and Éponine was alarmed to note that her voice had begun to tremble. "I think I wanted to make sure she was really dead. Or something. God, does that sound awful? I mean, I dunno. Maybe I thought I dreamed it all, that she just ran off or something. I wouldn't have blamed her. But you showed up, and then maybe I, I _hoped_… "

"Did you believe I might have been her?"

"I don't _know_. I don't know _what_ I thought. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get out of the flat. I hate it there. I can't wait 'til I turn of age. When I turn eighteen, I'm gonna ask to live on the council estates in South London and get a job, and I never want to see them again. But I'm always so _bloody_ scared. I want to be stronger, like my sister. That's why I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out she'd run off, see. She was tough. She was sick of putting up with Mum and Dad's shite."

"Do you truly think she would have left you?"

"Well – no. I don't know. I wouldn't have minded if she had done. At least it would mean she'd have gotten out."

The very worst thing was that she never cried. If she cried, Éponine could simply have hugged her and comforted her until she recovered. Her voice trembled, she even hiccoughed a few times, she drew in many shuddering breaths. But she never shed a tear.

For a time period that could have been anywhere between a minute and ten, Azelma returned to dead silence. At last, she said, "I don't even know what to call you, Éponine. You're not my sister."

"I understand."

"You're not gonna replace her."

"Of course not."

"And I don't see how I can be yours. You didn't grow up with me. This me, you didn't play with her and sit about Dad's pub together and listen to him shout. It don't matter to me if you've got her name or not. It's like you're my sister but you're not. You're not even from this world. You… you brought the _idea_ of me in your head, 's what I understand. Doesn't make much sense. But I know my sister wouldn't have been able to do that."

Éponine paused. "Well, if it helps," she said, in a weak attempt at cracking a smile from the girl who both was and was not her sister, "Grantaire said that I'm something like your mother."

It worked. Azelma cracked a smile, then, finally, dissolved into tears, and Éponine held her for a long time afterward.


	21. Chapter 21

.

**New World for the Winning**

* * *

Chapter Twenty-one

…

It was nearly midnight when they got back to London. Éponine, who had for whatever reason been so sporting of the return trip she'd asked to sit at the back, had ended up falling asleep for most of the ride. Azelma fell asleep not long after her, slumping sideways so that her head rested against the drawn-up window. Enjolras found that he kept stealing glances at the back seat in the rearview mirror before remembering to keep his eyes on the road. A glance at the side mirror indicated: _Objects are closer than they appear_.

He pulled to a stop outside his flat complex and both girls blinked blearily into wakefulness. Azelma, upon rubbing the sleep from her eyes, looked moderately confused and nervous until Enjolras said to her, firmly but gently, "Stay the night."

Her anxious expression remained only a couple of minutes longer before she smiled slightly and nodded in thanks. She spent the night in what had once been Éponine's bed, and Stephen's before that. Enjolras and Eponine crammed themselves into his own bed, Eponine nestling into the crook of his arms and fell back asleep without saying a word.

…

Enjolras found himself waking at around 5am to the sound of shuffling in the living room. He lay there for a moment, blinking in confusion, certain that the noise was part of a dream already forgotten, all the while dimly aware of the need to pee but feeling too lazy to get out of bed. It wasn't until he heard a crashing noise that he found himself getting up as quickly as he could without disturbing Éponine.

He padded quickly into the corridor and found, of all things, Azelma standing in the kitchen, on tiptoe as she tried to reach something from the cupboard. When she realised he was watching her, she blanched and wheeled around to face him, her dark eyes wide. Her thin, pale hands found the hem of her T-shirt and she began to twist at it. "I'm sorry," she burst out in a thin voice, "I-I was just… I mean, I was, well… " She swallowed. "I was… "

"Raiding the cupboards?" asked Enjolras with a raised eyebrow.

Azelma hesitated, then nodded in resignation. "I wasn't nickin' much," she said softly. "Just some o' the teabags and the watermelon chunks and the Harrods cookie jar, cos it was covered in dust and it looked like you hadn't used it in ages. Otherwise I never would have taken it, I swear! And… er… " Perhaps because she realised Enjolras wasn't shouting at her, or had not yet taken her by the scruff of the neck, her expression morphed from frightened to sheepish. "… well, I thought I might take some of the Nature Valley bars. But I knocked down the frying pan." Another pause, then she ambled on, "I left you my tenner on the table to make up for it. I know it doesn't cover everything, but I figured I'd rather the ten quid go to some decent food than Dad's beer."

"That's okay," said Enjolras in a gentle tone, and while he meant it, he was rather taken aback by this news.

"It's just something Mum taught me to do. Raid the cupboards whenever I went to someone else's house. For school projects and stuff, you know, if we had to work in groups. Told me I might as well take advantage o' the situation. 'Specially if the kid's mum put out some Oreos or something. Mum said it was practically an invitation to take more o' their food, and of course she told me to take as many Oreos as I could fit in my pockets. I used to be better at it," she finished lamely. "But… well… I really _did_ leave you ten quid."

"That's all right," said Enjolras again. "Take your tenner. But next time you want some food, just ask, okay?"

Azelma blushed, then nodded, and removed four granola bars from the box of Nature Valley, which she slipped into her bag, still looking extremely sheepish. "I was just gonna go."

"This early?"

She nodded. "Mum'll kill me if she notices I've been out this long. She won't have noticed really," she added earnestly, "but, well, she might if I'm not at home by 6am."

"Well, if you insist, then," said Enjolras uncertainly. "Need a lift?" Azelma shook her head. "Okay. Well, see you then, I hope." Azelma nodded, then made to go. At the door to the flat, he stopped her again. "But Azelma – get out, okay? Soon as you can."

A ghost of a smile flicked over her face. "Don't worry," she said. "I will. Soon as I'm eighteen. And oi – I'll keep in touch, on and off, maybe, but… yeah. I'll keep in touch."

They were interrupted by the sound of shuffling footsteps, and Enjolras turned around. Éponine materialised behind him, blinking and bleary-eyed. She did not say a word to him, but rather, studied Azelma. Azelma, for her part, stood there, looking rather sheepish.

"Whatever are you doing?" asked Éponine at last. "You're not… leaving?"

"Yes," Azelma confirmed. "I'm sorry."

Éponine seemed to wake up a bit more. "No," she said. "You are not. Stay here with us." She did not so much as give Enjolras a sidelong glance, and there was a pointed authority in her voice that made it plain she would not take no for an answer.

"Actually," said Enjolras, glancing at her quickly, "that's a brilliant idea. Great."

Azelma stared, her eyes wide. "D'you mean… here, with you in your flat? Like, _live _with you? Seriously?" When both Éponine and Enjolras nodded firmly, her eyes widened and a hint of a hopeful smile lit her face. "I… I'd love to, but… " The expression crumpled. "I don't reckon I could. Mum an' Dad – "

Éponine cut across her. "If your father is anything like mine, then I quite imagine he shouldn't care, if I might say so. He shan't go looking for you. Your mother might spare herself a bit of worry, once in a while, but she shall not go out of her way to mourn you. I know what they are like, Azelma. Remember, they're nearly my parents too. You will be safer – _happier_ – here with us. I daresay there's room enough."

"And if you like, I could help you find a job at the Musain," Enjolras added.

Azelma pressed her lips together briefly, then broke into her broadest grin yet. "If you really mean it," she said slowly, "then I appreciate it. Really. I mean, _appreciate_'s sort of a weak word, innit? I can't really… Yes. I'll stay." Éponine moved as if to throw her arms around her neck, but Azelma held up a finger. "But I can't just leave them hanging like that. I've got to at least leave a note."

…

The back room of the Musain had come to be something of a curiosity to Éponine: she had been reasonably familiar with the room hidden away upstairs in the Musain of Paris 1832, and upon first entry of the back room of this world's Musain, she had felt terribly disoriented and out-of-place. Of course, such were all her feelings in regards to this world. Now that she had established herself a new home, she felt bizarrely familiar with the room of this world's Musain, despite that she had only set foot there once before.

Predictably, she and Enjolras were the first to arrive, so while Enjolras skimmed some articles he'd printed of newspaper websites, Éponine settled back into one of the chairs and made herself comfortable. Lily the barmaid was doing the drinks, and though she smirked when Éponine made of point of asking for a drink without alcohol, she was generally friendly.

"Grantaire's gonna be late," Enjolras announced to her at one point out of the blue.

Éponine looked up from _Jane Eyre_, which she was about three-quarters of the way through now. "Shall he be? Is he late every day, or has he… notified you with that mobile?"

"Well," Enjolras explained, "either he's late or he's already here by the time I arrive, and proper pissed, too. So since he's not here, I reckon it'll be the former."

"Oh." Éponine smiled and nodded, but she was remembering something Marius had once told her back in Paris. It struck her, suddenly, that she had not really thought about Marius for quite a while, neither the one of this world or of 1832, and it had been even longer since she'd yearned for him. It struck her as odd, now, that she'd ever been so very infatuated with him. He had been handsome, she could hardly deny that, and she'd been drawn to the kindness he'd always shown her. But why was it that she had not been willing to settle for the friendship that he'd been so happy to offer her? Thinking back, she felt that she had been incredibly naïve back then, so very like a schoolgirl. As she puzzled over it, Éponine found that she couldn't for the life of her understand just what it had been about Marius Pontmercy that had left her so very in love. After much pondering, she shook it off. The matter was of little import now. She had Enjolras, and he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. It was more than enough. An indifferent little sigh, and she went back to _Jane Eyre_.

The hour drew near eight o'clock, and in the next fifteen minutes or so the other members of Enjolras' group trickled in. First came Combeferre, who offered Éponine a friendly nod before beginning to run over some notes of his. Joly and Musichetta arrived shortly afterwards; they greeted everyone briefly, then settled down in a chair together and began snogging with a passion that seemed to border on the obscene. Laigle and Feuilly came next; followed by Marius and Cosette, with whom Éponine unexpectedly found herself striking up casual conversation; then Courfeyrac and Jehan, the both of them so deeply involved in an argument that seemed to be concerned with whether it was a vulture or an eagle eating out Prometheus' liver in Greek mythology, that no-one bothered trying to greet them. Éponine was in the middle of explaining the concept of fetching water in 1832 to a fascinated Cosette when someone else burst into the room.

"Hi, hi, sorry, sorry; I was playing football and got distracted – " Gavroche stopped and stared at Éponine with a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Oh. Hullo. I didn't think you'd come 'ere."

"Gavroche." Éponine got up from the table and crossed the room to embrace him briefly. She was careful to keep her emotions in check. He may have borne her brother's name and looked like him, but he was not the child she had grown up with, and she had to remind herself that she was not his sister.

Gavroche looked at her with something resembling sympathy. It was clear from his expression that word of Cosette's theory had reached his ears, and that he did not believe it. But he was quite friendly, and genuinely so, when he said, "Enjy was talkin' to me. Said you'd need some ID and stuff so you could get a job or something."

"Don't call me Enjy!" came the automatic retort from across the room.

Gavroche ignored him. "And I guess so you two can run off and get married and such."

Enjolras glowered despite the pink tinge that reached his ears; Éponine blushed furiously, and after a pause, she managed, "Well – perhaps – we might – not yet – anyhow, but whatever do you know about us?"

Gavroche's grin was answer enough. "Anyway," he continued in lofty tones, "you'll need a passport and health ID and a birth certificate and all kinds of stuff. Don't worry, though, I'm gonna help sort all that out. I got connections." Éponine raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Gavroche immediately turned to Enjolras hopefully. "Oi, Enjy. Don't you reckon that after all the work I'll have done, I maybe deserve a chance to get into some o' the action? Maybe assume somethin' of a leadership position in this club?"

"No, Gav," said Enjolras in a tone that suggested his patience was wearing thin, and it took much of Éponine's self-control not to laugh, "you can't take my position, because you're a child."

"I'm a teenager!" said Gavroche indignantly.

"You're eleven."

Gavroche looked extremely put out by this bit of truth. "Well, I will be a teenager in sixteen months," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping over to sulk in a seat as far from Enjolras as he could find.

A few minutes went by before Enjolras cleared his throat and stood up on his chair. "Well," he said, as Éponine leaned forward with interest, "I reckon that Grantaire will only show up when the meeting's started, so let's start now. First off, we've got a new member joining us and I don't think I need to tell you who she is."

Every head in the room turned to look at Éponine.

"And look," he went on stoutly, "you've all heard her story. It doesn't really matter if you believe her or not. But she's with us now and that's all I reckon any of you should be caring about. And that's all I'm gonna say about it. Okay. Secondly, I've been checking out your latest blog posts, Jehan, and I they're great, but you should probably – "

It was that moment that Grantaire chose to burst in. He shouldered the door shut, caught sight of Éponine, grinned, and crossed the room swiftly to sit down next to her, completely disregarding the fact that Enjolras was in mid-speech.

"Hey, Mum," said Grantaire in a low voice as Enjolras went back to speaking about blogs.

Éponine arched one brow and gave him a small nod of greeting.

"Nice to see you about here," said Grantaire casually. "It true what I heard Enjy saying coming in? You a member now?"

She nodded again, not wanting to interrupt Enjolras, and Grantaire grinned. "Ah, 'Ponine. Well, of course you are. Knew he'd rope you into it eventually."

"I have joined by choice."

His grin widened. "Well. Of course you have."

The meeting continued on, Éponine listening with genuine interest. Eventually Enjolras sat down next to her and Courfeyrac stood up, beginning to discuss his ideas for a new "design" for the blog.

Enjolras leaned close to her. "Poor you. You probably have no idea what he's talking about, do you, love?"

She shook her head slightly. "I'll explain later," Enjolras murmured. He paused, then whispered, "Come here, love."

Obligingly, Éponine dragged her chair closer to his and found herself leaning against his shoulder, her eyes still on Courfeyrac. As she listened to him speak, trying to understand at least part of what he was saying, she felt Enjolras' arms wrapping themselves around her, holding her close and warming her, a reminder that, finally, after one bitter lifetime of searching and yearning, here, reborn in this reciprocal world, she was home.

**…**

**FIN**


End file.
